In The Last Dark Hour
by ZPM
Summary: Sherlock Holmes. 33. Genius. Reformed junkie. Self-proclaimed sociopath. Probability statistics suggest a 95% chance of death in three months. Prevent it.
1. Chapter 1

In The Last Dark Hour Chapter I

Notes: Response to Prompt: John isn't human he's a guardian angel sent to protect Sherlock and keep him from either dying or becoming to similar to Moriarty (probably spelled that wrong). I would love a scene with Sherlock finding out and getting John to show him his wings, bonus points if their really sensitive. Re-posted from Sherlock_bbc meme. Unbeta'd.

Disclaimer: Sherlock is property of Mark Gatiss/Stephen Moffat/BBC and of course ACD. Stargate Atlantis is the property of someone else too.

* * *

John Watson sat at the end of his bed on his beige duvet in his dull, brown room. It was a grey day and he felt empty. This was the way it would always be – that yawning void within when he was not on assignment. He wondered if Michael would call. His last assignment had ended when he'd taken a bullet, slowing down his charges from walking in to an ambush that would have taken their lives. He should have felt satisfied - his job done. But it was always a loss to be parted from one's charges. The empathic bond that formed between guardian and change was one of the great blessings of his existence, something precious to be nurtured and cultivated. It was its own summons to a charge in distress and a balm to his spirit when his charge was content. Then he heard it – Michael's distinctive melodic voice. He was being called, sounded urgent, probably dangerous.

* * *

He lay down on the bed fully, closed his eyes and reached back into his mind to Michael's voice. He shifted up through the fissures in space and time to where Michael awaited. He wasn't the only one there – he recognised Sheppard's unruly mop of black hair. They'd met in Afghanistan. Watson had managed to save his charges, all of them; Sheppard had lost three. He looked wrecked.

"You're both being reassigned." Michael was always to the point, a quality more mortals could stand to emulate. Sheppard's relief and worry was obvious and he felt no different. Michael looked to him.

"33. Sherlock Holmes. Genius. Reformed junkie. Self-proclaimed sociopath. Probability statistics suggest a 95% chance of death in three months. Prevent it."

Michael transferred the remaining information to him. This wasn't going to be easy. John was always eager for a challenge but a sociopath? "Could it be worse?" he wondered. Michael turned to Sheppard:

"37. Rodney McKay. Genius. Poor people skills. Probability statistics suggest a 98% chance that he'll destroy 5/6ths of a solar system within eighteen months."

John paused in processing the data on his charge. Well, he considered, apparently it could be worse, much worse.

* * *

Back in the brown, cramped room, John contemplated the best approach to take to Sherlock. Every charge was different. Assimilation into each of their lives was variable but John's medical training favoured introduction as a doctor, though on his last assignment, John had been more than that, he was a comrade in arms. He'd found that role particularly fulfilling. It was the limited future projections' data flowing from his charge's 5% survival rate that got John rather enthused. That data strongly suggested an 86% probability that Sherlock would have a substantial positive impact on hundreds of other lives, if he survived to 40 (with a 2% chance of survival to that age), and on thousands - if he survived to 60 (0.13% survival rate). He would become a powerful force against evil and wrongdoing (in 91% of instances) but he hadn't yet committed himself by his own choice to this path. The next three months were absolutely critical. If he died, these lives would remain untouched by him, very much for the worse and he would not have fulfilled even a shadow of his potential. Although the data on the projected impact of other lives, the ripple effect, was sketchy, it appeared that Sherlock was one of those rarest of rare charges - a lynchpin in the timeline – and it looked like he'd be John's sole charge for the foreseeable future. Michael's urgency made more sense. Lynchpins had to be given one's entire attention and if they became unhinged in the slightest, the result was catastrophic with far-reaching, long-lasting, crippling ripple effects.

The only other lynchpin John knew about had been Irene's charge back in the 80s. She's taken him on while he was a school-child but hadn't taken the bullying issue seriously enough. That had been the unhinging event and little James had taken another's life before he'd left primary school, his path fixed by that choice irrevocably.

The latest info on Sherlock suggested that he was looking for a place in the city to live. John knew why he'd been picked as guardian – Mike Stamford, his charge while training at St. Bart's (probability statistics suggested a 67% chance that the death of his mother would result in self-isolation and dropping out) was known to them both. Sherlock also made use of the research facilities at St. Bart's. John could go in as Mike's colleagues, start up at Bart's - there was an opening in pathology. It would bring him in contact with the charge on a weekly basis. It would be easy enough to offer the usual unsolicited medical advice and adopt a paternal persona. John rejected the idea readily enough – Sherlock hadn't got on with his father, appeared to have consistent trouble with authority figures and his relationship with his elder brother was highly acrimonious at best. No paternal was not the way to go and clearly fraternal wasn't either but that left John with only one option: friend.

* * *

How do you befriend a self-proclaimed sociopath? The clear answer to John was that you didn't, but you could make yourself useful to them - become so utterly indispensable that they knew they wouldn't be able to do without you. And Sherlock needed a flatmate. Perfect. Now, all John had to do was "coincidentally" bump into Mike while he took lunch in Postman's Park, suggest he needed a flatmate and that he was having difficulties and he knew Mike would try to 'casually' introduce him to his charge. No, thought John, that wouldn't be enough. Sherlock needed a challenge. He needed to think that he had chosen John as his flatmate, rather than it being Mike's choice, and he needed a reason to do so. The man seemed to thrive on a challenge, particularly mental challenges, being proven right and showing he was better than others. John would just have to give him such a challenge. The shinning metal of his crutch caught his eye and John found himself smiling.

Sherlock had taken the bait. He'd picked up on the psychosomatic limp within scant minutes of meeting him. John was now one of his projects – he had no doubt that Sherlock would make his first attempt to "cure" him within the next twenty-four hours. John packed his jumpers and the rest of his clothing into his duffle bag. It was 5 o'clock now, he'd be meeting Sherlock in a couple of hours at Baker St. and he would move in to 221b by tomorrow morning. He wondered if it would be worthwhile letting Sherlock succeed in curing him on his first attempt – which would probably involve the 17 stairs to the flat he proposed sharing or if he should make him work a bit harder? John's limp would slow Sherlock down and he didn't think the Detective would be the type to wait around. If he didn't allow Sherlock's efforts to bear some kind of fruit, it was likely that Sherlock would get suspicious but if he was cured three minutes with Sherlock after months of therapy, that would be equally suspicious surely? There was only one thing for it then, he'd have to let himself get left behind – that would help convince Sherlock that John genuinely believed he couldn't walk but he'd probably only have to do it the once. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to slip into the core of himself where he heard Sherlock's pulse, the distant pull of his presence on the other side of the city and the slight echo of his feelings. The initial meeting with a charge and being in close physical proximity aided in the formation of the empathic bond. Frequency increased its strength though not its duration. The tenuous formation of that bond on reassignment left a feeling of completeness in John and he had been eager to meet Sherlock in the hospital yesterday to further it.

* * *

The greatest surprise from that introduction was the strength of Sherlock's feelings. Self-proclaimed sociopath Sherlock may well be but a psychologist he most certainly was not. John had felt the wave of Sherlock's emotions crashing over him when he'd entered the room and had been wary of looking in his direction lest Sherlock noticed. The dominant emotion was curiosity. He never had a charge that experienced curiosity as a feeling, usually it was nothing more than a motivation but Sherlock hungered for knowledge as some of his last charges had lusted for women. The bond helped John see what Mike could not – Sherlock's self-diagnosis was just a front, a disguise to shield him from caring too much. All that curiosity, when sated, brought knowledge. That knowledge gave Sherlock an edge that almost made him the equal of one of Michael's data acquisition guardians. When John considered how Sherlock must appear to those without the private line to his inner workings he wasn't surprised that Sherlock would have chosen to close himself off thus. He knew he'd have to be extremely careful in all his dealings with Sherlock – all the records pointing to Sherlock's not inconsiderable intellect strongly supported John's conclusion that there was a very high risk of disclosure.

The rules on disclosure between charges and guardians were simple: laissez faire was not a policy that anyone adhered to but every effort had to go into its appearance. In short, John was left with a good deal of freedom in using his abilities with, for or on his charges, as long as no one knew they were used. It was a solution of which any mortal politician could be proud. Being a doctor was a terrific advantage in that regard, as he could use his healing abilities without raising any suspicion. His ability to fly was substantially less advantageous and he barely took the time to flex the ten metre span that was compressed into his body behind his shoulder blades for the twenty minutes everyday as recommended. The constant compression left his shoulders sore. John told himself that it wasn't worth the risk but mostly it was because he had always been a heavy shedder and couldn't be bothered with the hoovering. Short of keeping a pet snowy owl á la Harry Potter, it would be difficult even for the most expert liar to explain the copious amounts of white feathers. Sheppard, on the other hand, had always loved flying, even trained as a pilot. He avoided compression as much as possible and had used his ability to deal with failed parachutes on more than one occasion. John had never had to save a charge in mid-air and his gift of flight had been utterly unused save on that one occasion when he'd been running late for a rugby match when his current corporal form was in its teens. That hadn't involved any charge – he just hadn't wanted to leave Blackheath a man down. Technically, he wasn't supposed to use his gifts for such mundane things but, damn it, it was the Cup Final! John wasn't going to apologise for taking it seriously and Michael had never called him on it. He didn't do it again.

There was one significant exception to the rules: no secrecy was worth the death of a charge. But John had never been in a position to make that call. He strongly suspected that life with Sherlock would change that.

* * *

When Sherlock had said that he needed an assistant, John carefully kept his eyes from his charge's face but he had felt Sherlock's desire at that moment – he wanted John to suggest himself. In that moment, the empathic bond firmed and strengthened, connected on both sides. And John really wanted to say yes, but he had to stick with the game plan. There would be more satisfaction for his charge in the end, if he believed he had motivated and angled John into the role than if John elected it. Free will: it was one of John's personal rules when he dealt with his charges. Sherlock had to be the one to choose him, just as he had as a flatmate, just as he would as a friend. When Sherlock came bounding back up the stairs, John knew he'd made his choice.

At Lauriston Gardens, John tried not to ham up the limp too much and took his time coming down the stairwell, knowing full well Sherlock had taken off back to the flat and had chosen to leave him behind. Stage one was completed and it looked as if Sherlock might well cure him before the next day. John had felt a deep sense of pride in his charge when he saw him in his element. But it had saddened him to feel Sherlock's surprise at his words of praise and awe in the cab and then later at the crime scene. He knew that Sherlock needed to feel that his intellect, his work and he, himself, were valued and that he'd had little experience of it. That would change now, thought John.

Admittedly, he'd been wide off the mark about the phone but John could hardly tell Sherlock that Harry and Clara were two hyperactive cupids who worked for Raphael's department with a penchant bordering on obsession for mortal tech and hand-engraving. Everything from the George Foreman Baby Grill to the carpet-sweeper in their house had been engraved "Love Clara xxx" or "Love Harry xxx". He'd been right about the scratches and the alcoholism. However, these had occurred when the phone had been lent by Harry to her latest charge, whose story, unsurprisingly, had a happy ending with the love of a good woman saving both Frank and his liver. Harry and Clara were one of the most successful cupid teams out there at the moment – averaging a 100% success rate in soul mate matches in the last 67 years. But Sherlock was right in the essentials – he did think of Harry as a sister and he didn't want to accept her help, not because he wasn't close to her as Sherlock supposed, but because it would have involved kipping at a house where everything was pink (and engraved) and Barry Manilow played 24/7. Cupids – they made great friends but terrible decorators.

* * *

John was making his way back to the main street when the phones seemed to ring in response to his presence. He thought it might be one of Harry's pranks but when he answered it was an unknown male voice that responded. He knew he was wearing a look of surprise visible on the watching camera but the real cause was the alert he got on his guardian radar. He kept one part of his mind on his conversation but the bulk of his attention was on that growing blip. He knew another warrior guardian was in the area, in corporeal form and they were on an intercepting trajectory. By the time the sleek black car pulled in, he'd identified the other: it was Irene and she was sitting on the back seat.

He got in the car and greeted her. She responded nonchalantly with a sideways glance. He wasn't sure if she went by Irene now - it seemed more likely that she would take a new name – to go with the different corporeal form and her assignment. He was proved right – she called herself Anthea.

He reached out with the telepathic communicative sense that could be initiated only between and among their kind.

"Irene?"

"Your charge. The odds are changing, shifting and they're not going in his favour." Irene was like Michael that way, straight to the point.

John immediately stretched his bond to Sherlock to its furthest most limits. He wasn't at the flat as John had originally supposed but no more than ten minutes from John's own location and he was excited and searching for something. He tuned back to Irene.

"What kind of odds? Michael's data said I'd three months?"  
"85% probability of death in the next six hours"

John's heart sunk "How? Who?"  
Irene continued "The murderer, his patron and your charge himself"  
"My charge?" John could not believe Sherlock was suicidal.  
"He's an idiot." John calmed – not suicidal then, just some stupidity on his charge's part.  
The only question that remained unasked was how she knew but John already had an inkling. Before Irene worked as a warrior guardian, she'd been in data acquisitions. Whether she'd acquired the data herself or from an old contact was unknown and ultimately irrelevant to John.

He felt a strong twinge along the bond: Sherlock was happy. He'd found what he was looking for.

Irene sighed beside him "You''ll be fine. It could be worse. I've got to help my charge avert another inter-galactic war."  
"Do I want to know?"  
"He's the British representative of the IOA."  
"Mycroft Holmes?" It was the only possible answer.  
"Yes" confirmed Irene.  
"Ah." This was more Sheppard's assignment than John's though he was glad he'd been there for Sheppard's briefing. On further reflection, that was probably why Michael had briefed them together. Even after all these years, with the ever increasing numbers of potential charges, temporal interference and variable probabilities, it still surprised John how nearly everyone was tied together by charge or by guardian.

Irene carried on "He'll test your loyalty. Offer you money."

And Sherlock would want him to accept, feed Mycroft false info and then split the money. John would refuse. Irene looked up from her blackberry. They shared one brief look of understanding before the car pulled into a disused warehouse. A solitary figure stood a few metres in front, illuminated by the approaching car lights. He glanced questioningly to Irene and she gave a slow blink. She spoke aloud: "We're here. You can get out now." It was chilly outside of the car and he resisted the urge to shiver. Irene was right: it could be worse - he could be with Sheppard in Antarctica.

The bond hummed gently and John sensed Sherlock was contemplative fairly near to Baker St.

John knew exactly what Mycroft wanted; in some ways it wasn't all that different from what he as a guardian wished: to keep Sherlock safe. Both also knew that the risks that Sherlock himself created were not the sole obstacle to achieving this aim. The original data on Sherlock had indicated a very small risk of abduction by a Trust cell active in London. That probability was markedly reduced in light of the more recent statistics but Mycroft didn't know that. All he knew was that his choice of work was exposing his brother to a risk of danger and not being involved with the programme meant Mycroft had limited resources with which to protect him.

If Sherlock was harmed by any of Mycroft's enemies, the guilt would crush the man and probably cripple Irene too. She could not afford to lose another charge. No guardian really could afford to lose any: the empathic backlash was almost completely disabling. It was a testament to her strength that she'd not only chosen reassignment but been able for it.

John also knew what Mycroft expected of him. He suspected, though he would never admit it to his charge, that Mycroft might be somewhat smarter than Sherlock. He would have to carefully fit himself within his crafted persona of recently returned war veteran, laden with trust issues and a dodgy PTSD diagnosis. Mycroft had probably already read his file from the therapist and accessed his service record. If he suspected John to be anything other than what he appeared, he had no doubt that he'd want him out of Sherlock's life and possibly into the afterlife. It could make things quite difficult. However, he trusted that, notwithstanding Irene's ostensible role as PA, her subtle influence with her charge would safeguard John's current placement. John felt a bit more confident. Plus, if Irene, who worked with Mycroft daily, had been able to fool him for years, John was sure he could weather the next few minutes successfully. Sherlock, meanwhile, had had some kind of epiphany of logic - his self-satisfaction came singing down the bond.

"You don't seem very afraid" observed Mycroft.  
"I'm not supposed to" thought John - if there is one thing immortals don't fear, it's death. He steadied his left hand and stood straight. The vibration of Harry's mobile with a message from Sherlock to come home did not surprise him. There would be another in less than a minute; he could feel Sherlock's impatience. As predicted, the offer of money was made and rejected and by the time Mycroft was checking his left hand, John was certain Mycroft Holmes would not be any opposition to his role. He suspected he would be seeing a lot more of Irene.

He collected the remainder of his things, including his firearm, before Irene dropped him off at Baker St. He noticed that she seemed more agitated after the meeting than before and they spent most of the journey in silence. As they turned on to Baker St., she opened a channel of communication,

"It's all connected but one step removed."

She said nothing further and John regretted not having done a stint in data acquisitions where that sort of nebulous statement would have made complete sense. As it was, he felt as if he'd been asked to join up the dots without the dots or the pen. A feeling of oblivion from Sherlock urged him into the cold again and upstairs. The parting comment of Irene left him unsettled and he was now down to three hours. He glanced at the window but sensed nothing. Sherlock immediately picked up on his distraction but John quickly ascribed it to his meeting with Mycroft. Finding out that he had been the source of the text to Sherlock's lead on the case sickened John. It was not in his nature, nor in any guardian's, to assist in the creation of a threat to their own charge.

* * *

Things were progressing rapidly and John knew if he was to adhere to his resolve to accompany Sherlock at all times, the limp would have to disappear at the earliest opportunity. At Angelo's, he made certain to put the crutch out of view - a credible excuse for forgetting it. Temporarily distracted by food, he nearly missed Sherlock's hasty departure. Seeing him get hit by a car, sent John's senses into overdrive but he felt no pain from Sherlock only frustration. He was off running before John had finished mentally assessing him for injury. All John could do was follow.

Arriving back at Baker St, out-of-breath and "cured", John felt Sherlock's triumph at his apparent success. Despite what he knew would occur later that evening, he found himself chuckling along - Sherlock's happiness was contagious. When he got his breath back, he heard the distant shuffling of feet over his head. It obviously was not Mrs Hudson, who padded around softly and there was more than one of them. Sherlock was smiling at him fondly and John sensed he was anticipating someone - had he invited these people round?

The doorbell rung and when John got his crutch back, he tried his best to look surprised. The time spent with Sherlock this evening was paying off as was sharing in his emotions - more threads were being added to the bond. A stronger bond meant not only a stronger empathic echo that could be heard across greater distances but a more keen sense of each emotion and its level. Mrs Hudson appeared and then Sherlock was off again, bounding up the stairs a bundle of energy, frustration and underneath it, some hurt. For John, the raid couldn't have come at a better time - having the flat filled with a half a dozen policemen and women would surely make someone think twice about making any kind of attempt on his charge that night. He was keenly aware that each second ticked away the last hour. Despite the waves of bitterness now emanating from his charge at the doubt he saw in the faces around him, John felt only relief. He positioned himself next to the door, his eyes on Sherlock. He moved off to his laptop when requested, Sherlock looking over his shoulder. 55 minutes.

He knew the moment it happened, when the choice was made that would put in place the series of events that would end in his charge's death - Sherlock had left for a breath of air. John kept an eye on him through the window and saw him get in the taxi. There was silence on the other side of the bond - he'd had to get used to those moments, when Sherlock's mind absorbed all his energy and there was no room for simply feeling. It was like feeling a heart skip a beat. They were of short duration and usually superseded by self-congratulations and pride but only wary anticipation followed now and, to John's annoyance, he recognised another emotion as the thrill of the chase. His idiot charge was going to get himself killed and drive him mad in the process. He turned to the police but they were leaving. His attempt to motivate Lestrade by getting him to own to Sherlock's value succeeded partly. It didn't stop the DI from leaving. John had to get moving before the bond stretched too far and he lost geographical accuracy. The quite ping of the laptop distracted him, the new search was complete and he knew how to find Sherlock.

* * *

Twelve minutes. He had just twelve minutes before it would be too late. Sherlock had remained by turns calm, inquisitive and quietly confident which was consoling to John. The GPS had given him the building but not the room and his empathic sense was driving him forward to the room at the end of the corridor. He flung the door open, ran in expecting to see Sherlock in front of him and stopped. There was Sherlock holding up the pill, the man responsible was standing in front of him and John was separated from them by a hundred feet of air.

There wasn't enough time to decompress his wings but he could line up a shot. There was no other option. Sherlock was holding the pill to the light and moving it towards his mouth. "Of all the stupid, stupid things to do!" was John's last thought as he moved into position and let his training take over.

He knew Sherlock had figured it out, felt his realisation and gratitude flow into him from his direction. He made certain his expression did not alter when Sherlock looked away from Lestrade and towards him. His charge would confront him, John would laugh it off and they'd head back to Baker St. As Sherlock made his way over to him, John detected Irene heading towards him again, probably with Mycroft. The pair appeared, black car to the left, as they were making their way from the crime scene.

John was getting plenty of practice on his 'surprised' face today. Sherlock didn't even glance at him as he explained what John already knew of the relationship between his arch enemy and himself. John feigned an interest in the sibling feud as it played out in front of him while he opened up communications with Irene who was standing off to the side, blackberry in hand. She didn't look up.

"Thanks"  
"It changes nothing, only delays the inevitable."  
"Sherlock's still alive - I'd call that a change."  
"For now. The last connection still hasn't been made."

Sherlock was storming away and Mycroft's attention shifted to John, who was caught staring at his PA intently. He posed some questions but Mycroft was gazing at him with a questioning expression. Irene's wry amusement was evident to John as he covered by telling her they'd met before, earlier. She'd always loved irony.

Despite Irene's cautious attitude, the thought of spending the remainder of the night with his charge guessing the riddles in some Chinese fortune cookies warmed John. He felt giddy excitement welling up in Sherlock and with one word, the warm feeling dissipated and the cold rushed in.

Moriarty.

The last connection. The sponsor. The step removed.


	2. Chapter 2

In the Last Dark Hour Chapter II

Author Note: Based on The Blind Banker. Response to Prompt: John isn't human he's a guardian angel sent to protect Sherlock and keep him from either dying or becoming to similar to Moriarty (probably spelled that wrong). I would love a scene with Sherlock finding out and getting John to show him his wings, bonus points if their really sensitive.

Disclaimer: Sherlock is property of Mark Gatiss/Stephen Moffat/BBC and of course ACD. Stargate Atlantis is the property of someone else too. Contains quotes from the series.

* * *

As he wandered around the supermarket, surrounded by row after row of bottled carrots, tinned peas and mustard pots, John considered his last conversation with Michael. From Sherlock, he'd learned that Moriarty had been the cabbie's sponsor but Michael hinted that this was just the tip of the iceberg. Irene had of course been informed. No, what occupied John's thoughts was that in addition to Sherlock - whose statistics had now increased to a dramatic 98% likelihood of death in two months and two weeks - he now had another charge.

"Sarah Sawyer ."

"It's only temporary" said Michael. "A couple of weeks at the most then she'll be permanently reassigned to Raphael's department".

"Raphael's?"

"Yes - she was to be transferred to Harry and Clara last week but they're still dealing with the Valentine backlog and Data Acquisitions has urgently recommended her immediate assignment. Destined for a bad run of luck in the romance department it seems." Michael paused, gave John one of his deep and meaningful stares and then ruined the moment by winking at him.

"32. GP. Bad break-up five weeks ago. Long term relationship. She wanted to settle down and he bailed out…"

"Risk of death?"

"John! I think you've spent too much time with Sherlock. Guardianship isn't always about running harum-scarum through London, drugs busts and shoot-outs! It'll do you good to have a charge that grounds you in normality for a bit. Keep an eye on her. Harry and Clara will do the rest."

And that was that, the second bond began to form. Technically, guardians were capable of forming infinite numbers of empathic bonds. The limitations on one guardian's time and energy meant that meeting the needs of many multiple charges was exceedingly difficult and seldom did any guardian take on more than a half dozen at once. John was not particularly fond of temporary bonds preferring those that lasted a couple of years at least. It gave him time to get to know his charge at a personal level rather than through the gaze of some anonymous Data Acquisitioner. Sherlock being a lynchpin was expected to be his central focus. However, he realised that the short duration of his bond with Sarah was a positive in this case. He hoped he'd be able to balance the time and energy needed among his charges, though he suspected Sherlock would continue to dominate both. His inability to give the other the necessary level of attention was a worry.

He began reviewing the rest of the data on Sarah for assimilation possibilities. Two colleagues at the clinic where she worked were on holiday and a third was on maternity leave - locums were needed. John planned to apply and given his qualifications, hoped he'd secure it without too much difficulty. If anything, he was over-qualified but could always say he needed the money. Such a job would serve two immediate purposes. It would enable him to meet and further the connection with his new charge and allay any suspicion of Sherlock. If things continued as they were, it would not be long before Sherlock would wonder how John, on an army pension and with no work, continued to meet the rent. His current explanation of savings wouldn't hold out forever. Of course, the likelihood of Sherlock guessing the reality of John's financial situation was extremely low. The truth was that no guardian had money troubles thanks to Tony at the Department of Miracles who managed never-run-low current accounts, organised infinite overdrafts and issued global fiscal all-in wonder-exemptions.

He'd left Sherlock back at the flat contemplating a case about a diamond. However, when he arrived at the checkout he sensed Sherlock's alarm. He tried to keep cool but at the machine, he lost his patience in his haste to return to Baker St. Sherlock was under attack and he was ten minutes away.

He exited the shop tearing off his coat, grey top and shirt, ran to the side alley and decompressed his wings. It was agonising distending them fully after being compressed for months and he shed feathers all over the stained cement before he stretched out and moved up, catching a thermal from the supermarket's in-house bakery exhaust. As soon as he was in visual range of their street, he felt a succession of emotions from Sherlock - his thrill at success, a touch of vanity and then the usual self-satisfaction, which brought him no small measure of relief. Arriving at the alley behind Speedy's, he hastily redressed, looped around to the front door. Upstairs, he found Sherlock ensconced in his chair as if he had never moved, seemingly utterly absorbed by a book on bee-keeping. John wasn't fooled. He glanced round the room quickly for any evidence though nothing immediately stood out. Yorick still stared blankly back at him from the mantel, the wallpaper bore no additional holes and the carpet carried no new scorch marks. Perhaps a different guardian would have been moved to anger at Sherlock for endangering himself, John, however, was filled only with fond exasperation and a touch of disappointment at having missed the latest adventure. He reluctantly conceded that Michael had something of a point. Life with Sherlock was anything but dull. Then again having come back from a war, he doubted a purely civilian life would have been easy to adapt to. In the kitchen, he spotted a telling graze on the table. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Sherlock sliding something shiny underneath his chair with his foot. He wanted to ask where he'd obtained the flyssa but decided to play along. He plonked himself down in his usual seat, noticing the conspicuous absence of pain between his shoulders and wondered whether it really was worth doing those decompression exercises.

* * *

He mooted the idea of getting a job aloud; Sherlock paid no attention. When John looked up, he'd moved to the dining table and nicked his laptop. He got up and nicked it back somewhat horrified that Sherlock had guessed his password ("angelsarewatching"). He didn't have to act awkward when he asked for a loan, making the request was genuinely uncomfortable. Sherlock's urgent need to visit the bank resulted in a new case and a meeting with Sebastian Wilkes.

John truly didn't want to think ill of any mortal he'd never met personally but being aware of Sebastian's past connection with Sherlock left him predisposed to dislike the man on sight. Data Acquisitions had done a thorough job on Sherlock and although his time spent at Uni was far from the most interesting aspects of his life, John was glad of the info now. Sherlock wasn't in Uni any more and neither was Sebastian and this time he had John looking out for him. But having sensed Sherlock's surprise at being emailed by the man, the rapidity of his response (Heaven knows it took a personal visit from Lestrade!) and his almost desperate need to prove himself, it was clear to John that the importance of Sebastian's recognition to Sherlock was not confined to the past.

Back at University, Sebastian and Sherlock had pursued different degrees but shared the same hall of residence. In their final year, both had chosen the same broad curriculum option. Sherlock's brilliance was well known to Sebastian and he suggested they team up. It seemed good ole Seb had used Sherlock when it came to their undergraduate thesis, completed jointly as research colleagues. The research wasn't just good. It was brilliant and more importantly it was publishable asserted their supervisor. Sherlock, however, knew nothing of the article going to peer review until it was already published under Wilkes' sole name. John had read the piece and even he could see it had Sherlock's trademark empiricism at its backbone. Sherlock was not to type to care about credit although he(or rather his deductive process) liked to be flattered , but Wilkes thought otherwise and attempted to pre-empt any dispute by publicly denying they'd ever been colleagues. It was hardly a well-thought out ploy. In the end, their supervisor had seen the article, called the two into his office to discuss it and, although Sherlock hadn't pressed the matter, he subsequently wrote to the Journal pointing out "an editorial omission" and giving full details of the shared authorship. A clarification was issued in an addendum to the volume and when Sebastian applied to complete his Masters at the same Department, his application was quietly refused. As and between Sherlock and Sebastian Wilkes, the damage was already done. Sherlock never engaged in joint research again.

Why Sherlock felt the need to prove himself the better man, John could not fathom. He'd already done so. As the introduction was made, John plastered on a fake smile and shook Wilkes' hand. He took an unnecessary amount of pleasure in Wilkes' reddening cheeks and discomfort as he said he was a colleague. He regretted it almost immediately after when he sensed Sherlock's feeling of rejection down the bond. He felt ashamed of himself - hadn't he wanted Sherlock to chose him as a friend? Then when he did, he was so busy making a point to a man who wasn't worth it that he was behaving almost no differently. He promised himself he'd make it up to his charge. He felt a second flare of hurt and sadness when Sebastian commented on how Sherlock was "hated" at Uni. He would be happy to see Sherlock show this guy up.

It was later when Sherlock had finished doing his excellent imitation of a meer cat checking out different vantage points around the office and John had mentally updated his CV for the third time, that John realised Sherlock had wanted to show Sebastian that he was successful, brilliant and didn't need the money. He regretted taking the cheque - he'd thought it was Sherlock's due - but in doing so he'd inadvertently denied his charge all the pleasure of his refusal.

They headed down the escalator while John recalled his promise to make it up to Sherlock. His charge was focused almost entirely on the subject of Van Coon and John experienced another moment of startling silence at the other end of the bond. He asked how Sherlock had known of Wilkes' travelling, giving him an opportunity to impress him (again) and offer praise. As the detective explained his reasoning, John felt he'd gone some way to making up for his earlier gaff.

They went directly to Van Coon's apartment. Watching Sherlock cajole and charm the guileless Ms Wintle had been somewhat uncomfortable. Sherlock was clearly acting - and doing a very good job- John felt nothing of what he projected. However, it was when he wanted to use her balcony that John thought he'd intervene. In the lift, Sherlock's explanation that he expected the door to be locked was plausible but the idea of his charge swinging himself over the outer edge of a balcony on the sixth floor left John expecting an emergency alert from Michael. If it hadn't been for the disclosure rules, he'd have flown Sherlock to the balcony but it was lunch time with plenty of people milling about, not to mention Sherlock himself who couldn't fail to miss the obvious. As it was the risk was minimal and Sherlock was already striding out of the lift before John could say anything more than "Be Careful". He stretched the bond as he pressed the button for the floor below but sensed nothing amiss until he was actually standing in front of Van Coon's door waiting for Sherlock to open it. There was a pressing urgency behind his charge's actions, not mere curiosity and after hearing the crash of timber from within, John sensed Sherlock withdrawing sharply from his own emotions. He'd been with Sherlock at enough crime scenes to recognise that response. By the time Sherlock finally opened the door, John was certain Van Coon was dead. He made sure to wait till he was with Sherlock in the bedroom before he phoned the police.

As they waited, silence fell. Despite Anderson's complaints, Sherlock was not entirely without respect for procedure, he touched nothing and eventually strided back out into the living room. John followed, wondering if it would be considered bad form to make a cup of tea in the dead man's kitchen, something to warm them both up. He sounded like Mrs Hudson and that thought brought a small smile to his face.

"And what has you so amused?" Sherlock's words killed the silence and John was glad of it.

"Just wondering how Anderson would feel if I made myself a cup of tea at his crime scene".

"Why tea? There's champagne in the fridge. And Anderson's an idiot - he'd probably think the dead man got up and made it for himself."  
John chuckled and he felt the now familiar spike of pleasure Sherlock got whenever someone appreciated his humour. He was quite witty but it seemed to pass most people by. He watched his charge's face, the corner of his lips curling upwards a fraction before he turned to gaze out the window. He cared for Sherlock - he liked spending time with him - the Bond movie marathon had been fun mostly due to Sherlock's utterly irreverent side commentary - and yes, he was his charge, this was inevitable but, if that wasn't the case, would he have still found it so if their paths had crossed? There was only one answer.

"I am your friend, you know."

Sherlock turned back to look at him, one eyebrow quirked up but whatever he was going to say was left unspoken as the police sirens sounded out from below.

* * *

It was Dimmock, not Lestrade, who arrived at the scene and John didn't recognise any of the other officers present. They took statements, photographs and dusted for fingerprints. Dimmock did not make the best first impression. John recognised the type immediately - cocky, eager to prove himself, promoted early (maybe too early). He'd seen the same thing in some of the younger soldiers who sat with him when they flew out to Afghanistan. They got humble or died. Dimmock's choice would be simpler - humility (like Lestrade) or resentment (á la Donovan). It remained to be seen which route Dimmock would take. Clearly, he hadn't recognised the effort Sherlock had made - he'd been polite, even offered his hand but Dimmock was too interested in establishing himself as the alpha. From that point, it was only a matter of time before Sherlock would tear apart Dimmock's hasty conclusions with the sharp edge of his deductions.

After that, they took a cab to meet Sebastian Wilkes, again. John had personally seen more than enough of the man that day but Sherlock was planning to call while he was at "very important business meeting" (which according to his secretary was occurring in a high end sushi bar) and John wanted to make a point of being there with him. They ended up having the conversation in the water closet of all places but Wilkes couldn't provide anything valuable save to confirm what Sherlock had already deduced. As much as John despised Wilkes, he knew he wasn't responsible for the death of Van Coon.

He dropped by Sarah's clinic office the next day, ostensibly to obtain an interview. She'd offered him one on the spot. The empathic bond cemented soon after. Both bonds were now in perfect working order; John could hear them clearly and distinctly.

* * *

Despite his best efforts, he could not help himself from comparing his two charges. Sarah's emotions were entirely within normal parameters and completely unexpected to John. They were continuous, predictable and fluid, flowing from one into another without pause - pleasure, fascination, amusement, sympathy and on and on. Sherlock's stuttered and started like the ignition in an old car, depending on his levels of mental absorption and then moving from one to the next with the same rapidity and unpredictability as the man himself.

Admittedly, there were moments when Sherlock's feelings were sensed almost at a remove from the man himself, as occurred yesterday. Guardians knew that in the majority of circumstances this dislocation was in fact the perception of emotion at subconscious and, occasionally, the unconscious level. This didn't seem to be the case with Sherlock - it was if he had consciously set his feelings to one side and didn't allow himself to feel them indepthly. The occasional nature of that conscious dislocation had not concerned John enough to raise the matter with Michael. He already knew that the matter had been the subject of research by Data Acquisitions over two decades ago mostly deriving from a case study on Irene and her former charge and in some special cases was linked to mortal understandings of antisocial behavioural disorders. Data Acquisitions had even posited that it was this level of removal that had spared Irene the worst of the empathic backlash. John however was not convinced; Sherlock was not and never would be another James.

He had thought there might be a link between intelligence quotient and the conscious suppression of emotion. Of course, information gathered from empathic bonds was usually strictly confidential, only in limited and exceptional circumstances would a warrior guardian disclose something so learned to another outside the bond but the rules were not so strictly applied as and between fellow guardians where the object was improved understanding. He was going to approach Irene but had contacted Sheppard instead. That conversation had been much more illuminating though not on the issues John had raised. Sheppard was happier than he'd seen him since Dex, Mitch and his other charge (also incidentally a temp assignee) had died. It seemed he didn't mind the cold, the unending whiteness nor the awful mess hall food. He was flying again, had formed a new friend in a fellow guardian called Jack, and met his new charge. He described his charge as "emotionally erratic with ever escalating spirals of feeling in all different directions that could at times block out rational thought". Rodney, John gathered, didn't so much feel less as more, everywhere and everyplace. No link then, John supposed, if anything Sherlock was the opposite, rational thought blocking out the emotion. He didn't pay much attention to the rest of the conversation but gathered that Sheppard was planning now to leave Antarctica and move to some city. John wholeheartedly recommended city life, wished him luck and they parted on the best of terms.

No sooner had he returned to the flat from his meeting with his second charge than he was being back hustled out of it by Sherlock.

* * *

Another dead. Sherlock was convinced it was the same killer. John was persuaded but it was Dimmock who had to be convinced. The sky outside was clear blue - a strange day to feel unoptimistic. To John, there were days when it seemed that the whole city was held in the sway of the Department of Final Cessation. When he'd got his orders sending him to Afghanistan, Az (head of the D.F.C) had tried to get John transferred to his department but John had resisted. He absolutely detested the uniform. He'd take a Browning over a farm implement any day - at the least the former leant itself to easy concealment - fitting a scythe down the back of one's trousers was seriously uncomfortable. Plus John was essentially in the business of saving lives and while the DFC was not. He'd butted heads with colleagues at the DFC more than once. They were impossible to argue with and any discussion usually ended with a yellow post-it waved in your face and a "If you don't like it, take it up with the management" (followed by management's response "If you don't like it, take it up with the Union." and then the Union's response "We regret to inform you that we do not involve ourselves in inter-departmental demarcation disputes".) It's not that John didn't have friends at the DFC - he did, well, just the one, but one Reaper was enough for an infinite life. Irene had worked for them after James but after less than a month had transferred back to Michael's Department. John didn't think he'd last half that time.

At Scotland Yard, John supported Sherlock as best he could. Dimmock's body language screamed of defensiveness and Sherlock's frustration flooded the bond.

"This investigation would move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as Gospel."

And then Dimmock glanced to him. John nodded and Sherlock got the time has asked for at the second victim's flat. They were there less than the five minutes requested before Sherlock was off to the library, John in tow. It was a quiet ride in the cab; Sherlock was contemplative. He hadn't yet determined the connection between the two victims yet but John was sure he would. He would have expressed that confidence in Sherlock - only he knew it would disturb the man. The link between the two couldn't have been more obvious with the presence of the second cipher behind the book shelves.

* * *

Four hours later, after an uncomfortable interrogation with a community welfare officer, John was almost regretting following Sherlock to the National Gallery to question the graffiti 'artist' about the yellow cipher paint. He'd been worried Sherlock would go off on his own and was relieved to sense him in 221 B. Along the bond, he got the same stuttering silence that indicated Sherlock's absorption in his reasoning and Sarah's feelings of satisfaction probably from helping a patient. The court appearance would be a nuisance but arriving at the flat, he found Sherlock anything but sympathetic. In fact, Sherlock wasn't listening to a word he said and he was shunted back out to see Dimmock once more for the second victim's diary while Sherlock went to back to Van Coon's office. Retracing the steps in the diary he was aware of Sherlock moving towards him from the opposite direction - his charge's growing frustration ringing as clear as the ping on a GPS. He was adjusting his face into surprise when he saw Sherlock's coat walking into him backwards. He ended his charge's trend of feeling - pointing out the shop where the victims had met and from there they quickly solved the riddle of the ciphers.

As Sherlock whirled by in a storm of reasoning, John caught a woman taking a picture of him. Not Sherlock. Not a threat. Tourist? But then Sherlock disappeared into a restaurant opposite the Lucky Cat Emporium and John's stomach reminded him of its existence.

* * *

He was going to kill Sherlock. He banged on the door, shouted down the letter box with increasing distress as he felt the blackness engulf Sherlock that signalled unconsciousness. Just as he resolved to kick the door down, Sherlock regained consciousness and sluggishly, opened it. It was only his adherence to the disclosure rules that stopped him from questioning him. He wanted to wrap his fingers around that bruised throat and let his healing power remove the marks. He wanted to find out which person dared to harm his charge and then get their name put on one of the DFC's little yellow post-its, screw the rules. He wanted to tell Sherlock not to ever, ever leave him behind again, that no smuggling ring was worth his life and that he wasn't to leave his sight again. But before he could say anything, Sherlock was breathlessly telling him how somebody had left the flat in a hurry, Soo Lin Yao and insisting they had to find her. It took all John's acting skills to look like he hadn't just had the heart ripped out of him. His wished Michael had warned him, but Sherlock had, for once, been on the right side of the probability of survival ratios. He regretted not following Sherlock into the flat of the latest lead. Sherlock picked up an empty envelope on the floor at his feet. It was to their missing person. Sherlock spotted the bold arial font of the National Antiquities Museum's logo emblazoned on the corner. John glanced at the script as Sherlock turned the envelope over and with a sinking heart realised he could identify the owner of the handwriting, even without the hastily scrawled signature. It couldn't have been more clear than if Andy had written his message on a post-it. Soo Lin Yao was in serious danger and there was nothing he or his charge could do to alter her fate: she was marked for Death.

* * *

Entering the National Antiquities Museum, John got the predicted mental blip on his guardian radar. It was the DFC's very own Andy. He introduced himself to Sherlock and for appearances sake to John also. He seemed awkward and genuinely uncomfortable, hands pushed down into his pockets in a wine cardy and blue shirt. Sherlock passed him by as a subject of interest - which was exactly as it should be. John was relieved that the disclosure rules precluded Andy from wearing his proper uniform. John didn't know if Soo Lin had been processed by the DFC yet. He answered Sherlock's questions, readily enough and without hesitation and they followed him down to the repository where Soo Lin's last project had been placed in storage. The yellow ciphers were impossible to miss emblazoned across fair Aphrodite's face and chest. Andy's surprised face needed work and when Sherlock's back was turned taking some pictures with his mobile, John caught his gaze, eyebrow raised. He shook his head infinitesimally and mouthed "Soon".

Leaving the museum, they paused when hailed by the artist himself and as they followed him to his hang-out and began the arduous task of trying to find further ciphers, John realised that the possibility of getting dinner that evening had vanished. The next morning, Sherlock's need to see Soo Lin to crack the coding found near the tracks the previous night meant another visit to Andy. John would reluctantly play his part - he understood his place in this brave world - he knew that there was nothing that could be done to save her. What surprised him was that Andy, who'd been at her flat and at her place of work, hadn't moved quicker. He knew he'd been working at the museum for fourteen months. Why had he not acted sooner? Opportunity was never lacking at the DFC (indeed, it was one of their recruitment slogans).

"He means to kill her as well." stated John.

"I've looked everywhere, friends, colleagues..." Andy ran his hand through his hair nervously. Too nervously. He knew something.

"She could be a thousand miles away" Andy was lying for sure.

"Tell me about those teapots" demanded Sherlock and Andy did.

"Those pots were her obsession..." Andy continued and Sherlock's observation that one more was cleaned that hadn't been the day before brought realisation to John . This was Soo Lin's last appointed task. Andy knew exactly where she was, even now, and he was giving her the time to complete this task. Granting a final request. Andy glanced to John, who nodded in understanding and when Andy titled his head to Sherlock, John blinked slowly. Andy nodded. When Sherlock insisted on returning to the museum at night, John saw the struggle in Andy's shoulders. It would happen tonight and there were five pots left. The request would remain unfulfilled, another instance of unfinished business.

* * *

As predicted Soo Lin was tending to the teapots when Sherlock caught her. As she told her story, John felt a pang of sadness that she would not finish her work, that she had lived never truly free of her past and that she had never been assigned to a warrior guardian. Assignment as and between the different departments was carried out by the Union - a combination of all seven department representatives and assignment to individual guardians was carried out by the Head of Department. Had she slipped through the cracks? Was her life to end so soon? Had she cheated Fate before that it hunted her down in the darkness, blood against blood? While Sherlock questioned her, John sensed Andy in the room. He was in uniform. On the clock. There was no chance that John could stop this - even a seasoned warrior could not stop a DFC operative.

"You've been clever to avoid him so far." Sherlock's voice sounded out in the shadows. Oh, if only she knew, she never had! It wasn't cleverness that saved her. He was in the room with them now.

"I had to finish this work." But it wouldn't be.

"It's only a matter of time. I know he will find me." But how could one find what has never been lost? As Soo Lin undid her runner and displayed the Tong's tattoo on the sole, John knew she'd been marked far earlier than this. As she disclosed more of her past, her life story, John felt his anger unfurl in him - how was it that she had been left to that? Where had her guardian been? How had her life come to this? Andy chose that moment to open up a channel of communication.

"You know why I'm here."

"Yes" stated John.

"You cannot interfere."

"I know. But I don't have to like it."

"But you want to know why."

"Yes."

"Surely you know the story, of the lynchpin that went awry in the 80s under Adler?" John sent his affirmation down the bond. He had a feeling he wasn't going to like where this was going to go.

"You're right. It wasn't meant to be like this for her. But her choice was touched by his. One of those lives that has been affected in a different way than it ought to have been. Yes, she would still have joined the Tong. That was her choice and her choice alone. But it would not have been in danger. She would have been the one that got away." John stilled.

" Are you saying James is involved with the Tong?"

" He brought her killer here, into the country. Our work isn't so separated as you think John. Just another ripple in the pond."

John turned his attention back to the conversation with Soo Lin asking the odd question here and there. Just as she was about to explain the code, the lights went out and the darkness rushed in. Andy stayed put in the corner. The assassin was in the building and Sherlock bade John to stay with her while he ran out of the room.

John concealed her in the corner. Hump protocol and dash the rules! He would protect her. Andy's voice reached him through the opened channel.

"I'm not just here for her John. I just wanted you to know that in advance, so you don't feel to badly when..." He was cut off by the sound of gunfire and John could feel the heady rush of Sherlock's flight/fight response echoing within him. If it came to choice, and it now did, his charge would always come first. His anger at Andy for interfering was not forgotten even as his fear galvanised him into action. There was no one in the DFC he would now call friend.

John tapped into the bond to identify Sherlock's location but the gunfire he could hear was as good as any guide. Two for two. If he was mortal he would think that the Fates had it in for Sherlock. Today he was being shot at; yesterday he survived strangulation. He almost dreaded what tomorrow would bring. His charge's emotions had altered rapidly from annoyance to confusion. The feeling of being hunted dissipated and relief bubbled up inside John. A single gunshot sounded out from the direction he had come. Soo Lin was dead. He raced back to the room and saw Andy crouching over her, pushing some strands of hair out of her closed eyes in a parody of tenderness. John sensed Sherlock moving rapidly towards him. Andy stood up and looked to John and then to the door.

"I won't let you kill him." John's voice was steady. He didn't care if he was interfering with the DFC and the final protocol. His orders were to prevent Sherlock's death and he was going to do just that.

"John, stop making it out that I'm some kind of monster! I didn't kill Soo Lin. You know how this works; we don't interfere. We don't deal the death blow and we certainly don't create the circumstances for it to occur - if we did, we'd be no better than killers ourselves. We just collect, as it were, when it happens and it always happens. When the time comes, I won't ultimately be responsible for his death either, which brings me to what I was trying to tell you earlier." Andy paused, took a breath, and looked John in the eye.

"I won't be responsible, John. You will."

Andy looked as if he would continue but Sherlock's impending entrance, left him no choice but to leave. He melted into the shadows mere moments before Sherlock opened the door. John felt frozen and Sherlock took it as a normal reaction to the body in front of them. He wished he could doubt Andy but his face had been filled with something akin to pity when he'd looked at him. It was left to Sherlock to call Dimmock and explain the latest death.

His anger at the night's outcome, his failure to protect her, even if she wasn't his charge, and his disquiet at Andy's parting shot the link, nearly made him forget himself in front of Dimmock. Hands fisted, he let Sherlock take over who did a much better job in any case of persuading the man.

Arriving at the flat from St Bart's, the link between the victims clear as the black ink of their matching tattoos, he sat down in his favourite armchair, his frustration clear in every line of his body and Andy's words playing over and over in his mind. When Sherlock posed the obvious question: why did the head of the Tong or at least this division need Soo Lin? The illegal trade in antiquities - they needed her knowledge and expertise. A quick search of lots at the auction houses and John came to understand the huge wealth James must now have behind him and the extent of his connections to the underworld.

John was still too wired to sleep. So when Sherlock started going through the books that were the key to the cipher, seeking the common one between Van Coon and the second victim, John didn't even protest.

* * *

After another all-nighter with Sherlock, John headed to the clinic for his first shift. It was if a leaden weight had taken up residence within him. Sarah greeted him with a smile, introduced him to the receptionist who explained the complexities of the buzzer on his desk. Inside she was rather subdued and uncertain but she when her eyes met John's, she seemed to have formed some kind of resolution that improved her spirits. It was with a happier heart then that John received his first patient. Since Andy's final words, he was half expecting a call from Michael so when he heard Michael's urgent summons he wasn't surprised. He closed his eyes as his fifth patient went out and shifted his attention to his boss.

"John. Sarah -new data in. 50% risk of death in the next twelve hours."

John was stunned."Sarah?" Hadn't Andy said 'him'? Had his telling him last night changed things? One charge for another. Still unacceptable but the fact that such a change had been made indicated that the probability ratios on outcome were flexible.

"Seems she made a choice this morning to move on in the relationship department and she's promised herself to go out tonight. The data as yet is inconclusive but there's a 48% probability that a male 28 with black hair and physically fit will be a factor."

A high enough probability. He felt Sarah calling him to him and the conversation ended abruptly when he opened his eyes. He saw her in front of him, still very much alive. It looked to her as if he'd fallen asleep and she'd taken the surplus patients. It was a surprise to feel someone stepping in and lifting his burdens when it was usually the other way round. He would do whatever it took to keep her safe - he seriously doubted she would be more difficult than Sherlock.

* * *

Four hours later back at the flat as he was trying to choose something to wear for a date with Sarah, he began to doubt that optinion. The whole thing felt so odd. As he changed shirts again, he was seriously tempted to just contact Harry for advice but that seemed too much like cheating. For all his years, he just couldn't understand how had ended up so utterly confused. And he couldn't bail, for one thing Harry would kill him for cementing Sarah's views on men if he did and making her job tougher and more importantly, if he was with her at all times he was sure she would be safer. He could feel her excitement and anticipation flowing down the bond.

When they'd met outside the office at the end of the day - he was hanging around for an opportunity to thank her, apologise for his lack of professionalism and provide some plausible explanation for his exhaustion. He'd gone with partial truth (his late night) rather than an all-out lie (narcolepsy). Secretly, he'd been hoping to dissuade her from going out and thus encountering the target male or failing that, to find out her plans and fish for an invite - not subtle - Sherlock was rubbing off on him. It had seemed like a moment of inspired brilliance to suggest himself as a date that night, before he'd really considered the outcome and now he was changing his shirt for the third time. He glanced at his reflection, signed and reasoned it wasn't really cheating to use all available resources...

Harry had suggested the cinema and to stick with the blue candy stripe shirt he was already wearing. John thought the presence of a crowd and the public place was advantageous but he'd rather be in some place better lit. He checked the listings for timings when he got another alert from Michael.

"I don't know what exactly you've gone and done John but that 50/50 chance has now gone up! The risk of death is now 76%. Data Acquisitions said it was your recent decision that did this. Whatever it was, change it! Her chance of meeting with the target has also increased to 62%."

It was this alert coupled with the remembrance of Andy that were the only explanations for John taking his 'married-to-my-work' charge's suggestion of the circus for his date rather than that of a highly successful cupid. The circus would have all the advantages of a theatre plus good lighting. Breaking the news of his evening's engagements to Sherlock was somewhat awkward - surely Sherlock didn't think what they did was dating? Bad enough with one charge, but both? If Harry and Clara found out, he'd never be allowed live it down. Still Sherlock's feelings were dominated by curiosity, so he wasn't going to read too much into it.

* * *

There are moments in life of complete clarity where every relevant truth is suddenly illuminated by one great flash of understanding before disappearing from view into the recesses of memory. Those moments are points of perfect unity between knowledge, intuition and understanding. Not all truths are beautiful; those that are fill the heart for a fleeting moment of brilliant hope. But it's the ugly, unyielding, terrifying truths that sear into the brain and the heart never to be forgotten.

Such moments can never be predicted, they come at their own pace, when one is ready. John was ready and it came, at the worst possible time. While he looked upon the disaster of his night, both charges moments away from dying, Andy part of the shadows lurking behind him, that suddenly everything came together in his mind. He recalled Michael's alerts, Irene's comments and the expression of unrelenting grief in Sheppard's eyes the night his own charges died. It seemed ironic that as he was strapped to a chair looking into the eyes of one charge about to be killed by an arrow and his other charge being strangled behind her, he realised exactly how it could have been prevented. And Andy was right – he was responsible. The ugliest truth of all.

He tried to pinpoint each mistake. He could have said it was his reaction time at the door to 221B when he was accosted by the delivery man for the Chinese takeaway he'd ordered for himself and Sarah after their return from the circus. On the other hand, he could have said it was his failure to identify the man at the door as fitting clearly within the parameters of the target male, which affected his reaction time. He could say that it was the severity of the blow to the head that had prevented him from fighting back when he and Sarah were bundled into the back of white transit van. Even through the haze of pain which was augmented at each collision of his head against the side of the van, he could feel Sarah's fear mingled with Sherlock's triumph. He assumed, correctly, that Sherlock had deciphered the code. It was only a few minutes after that he was nearly overwhelmed by the combined force of Sherlock's shock and distress at finding them missing and Sarah's panic. Then a wave of guilt came from Sherlock before his flow of feeling stuttered to a halt. This was both a relief and a worry. Relief because Sherlock was working on tracking them down and worry about what would happen when he did. He knew abstractly that he was suffering from a skull fracture and he'd spent the journey subtly re-knitting the bone together. He could also have said that the energy needed to heal the bone and the pain had meant he'd retreated from his own consciousness which meant when he'd come to it was too late for himself and Sarah. They were already down an old London tube tunnel, tied up and in the power of a smuggling gang to whom life meant nothing.

But that would be a mistake in itself. He should have been looking further back. His choice of the circus - how certain he'd been that this would change the odds; how foolish that was! By bringing her to that circus, he saw now that he'd been the one to expose her to the target male and worse - he'd brought her into danger where she'd ended up intervening to protect his other charge from being beaten to a pulp by another circus performer. He hadn't needed Sherlock to point out the obvious connection between a Chinese circus in town for one night and a Chinese smuggling ring. The moment he'd seen the red paper lanterns and the oriental theme - he'd known. He should have taken her away but he couldn't leave Sherlock by himself. And that instance was what he had always feared would happen, that he'd have to choose between protecting one charge from himself and expose another to risk. He'd miscalculated that risk too - yet another mistake to add to his tally. But really, it hadn't been the decision to go to the circus, instead of the cinema that had led to this either, was it? He hadn't decided on bringing her to the circus until her odds had already changed - when Michael spoke of his recent decision - he belatedly understood that he was referring to his choice to offer himself as a date. If he'd only agreed that he did have a girlfriend when she'd made her enquiry after his shift. If only he'd let her go out with her friends or someone else, anyone, anyone but himself, all would have been well. He hadn't seen it but Andy had; Andy who was near him even now, the ever present eyes of death, watching everything transpiring in that dark, damp tunnel from ten metres behind him.

John had tried to reason with their captors. They thought (incorrectly) he was Sherlock and (correctly) that threatening Sarah would get him to talk. He tried to consider his options while the leader grandstanded on how they were seeking some pin that had been pinched. Three lives lost and possibly another two and for what? A hairpin! But there would be time to despair over the mortal weakness later. He needed a plan.

He could spread his wings - with both hands behind him, he'd definitely dislocate both shoulders if he decompressed. He'd have the advantage of surprise but he was outnumbered. It would take him at least thirty seconds for him to pop both joints back in their sockets by which time, they need only point the gun at Sarah to regain power. He could shout for help, but he doubted that anyone could hear him and he'd only endanger others if they did. The obvious choice would be to beg Andy for help. But hadn't he already said how he wouldn't interfere? He could open a channel to Michael but that would leave him unconscious for too long. He could try reaching out to Irene who could probably have the police down here in minutes without raising suspicion - not long enough but may be if he strung it out a bit he could buy some time, if he kept them talking. It was difficult to reach out to her without any empathic bond but her energy signal was identifiable and when he locked on he sent one word down the channel: "Help". He got a single word reply: "Coming."

He detected Sherlock moving down the tunnel towards them well before anyone else and their banter back and forth bought them some more precious seconds. But the circus contraption in front of Sarah had already been set in motion, ready to send her into the afterlife. And then Sherlock was there untying her, but he wasn't quick enough and the target male was already behind him before John could even shout a warning.

Irene's voice came through on the open channel "Three minutes out." That would be too late for Sarah and Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes had drifted shut now. They had seconds left now. "No, it can't end this way" John thought as he determined to catch one leg of the tripod on which the loaded cross-bow stood. He tried to move forward but there wasn't enough give in his bonds. Sarah was staring at the arrow when he felt a sudden force from behind him shoving him forward on to the ground, he hit the leg and the arrow shot into the target male. Sarah's eyes were full of tears, Sherlock was unravelling the material round his neck and their attacker… he was dead.

* * *

Four dead and John had been responsible for one of them. He hadn't even been aiming for him at the time. He heard sirens in the distance and knew Irene had arrived. Andy had shrunk back into the shadows, blending into one. John was relieved if confused as to why he interfered. Hadn't he said only yesterday that he didn't create the circumstances for death? And yet John was certain that the violent push could only have come from him.

"Why?" he directed to Andy, taking care to ensure that he chose a different frequency from his communication with Irene.

"I was helping a friend." There was a pause and he heard Andy moving away from him, further down the tunnel before that the sound was drowned out by the increasing noise of the sirens. Andy's assignment was almost complete and he allowed himself to feel some satisfaction. He'd collected both brother and sister. Unbeknownst to John, he had only one more left and he was done for the night.

Sherlock's feelings resounded down the bond, John couldn't hear what he was saying to Sarah but it was calming her. He was relieved Sherlock had made the logical choice of saving Sarah first. There was an unusual emotion emanating from the detective as he reached down to finish untying Sarah - it was the feeling of a debt being repaid. When Sherlock caught his eye, he saw his own relief mirrored back, then guilt and then nothing. Sarah's hands were shaking and she was looking down at him, her eyes full of even more tears. John thought of all the things he could say to comfort her but when he opened his mouth, he cracked a joke instead.

"The next date won't be like this."

She got unsteadily to her feet giving him an unfathomable look and, down the bond, John knew there wouldn't be a next time. Sherlock slipped out of his coat and draped it over her shoulders, muttering something about orange not really being her colour, before gliding over to him, releasing his bonds and helping him get to his feet. He heard Irene saying "Five seconds" and responded with "Thanks" before the communication cut off. With that the tunnel was flooded with noise, light and activity heralding the arrival of Dimmock et al. A flurry of paramedics surrounded Sarah, who looked like a small child, wrapped up as she was in a coat four sizes too big for her. Sherlock was turning to meet the Inspector and John recognised that if he didn't address the guilt from which the man was hiding, it never would be addressed. He stopped him from turning with hand on his forearm.

"It's not your fault." He spoke quietly but clearly and with complete conviction. Sherlock finally met his gaze and read the truth that lay there. Sherlock looked away from John and then to the corpse and back at John.

"It wasn't your fault either." He replied. But that didn't stop John from feeling responsible and at that thought he started. So that's what Andy had meant.

"John?"

"I'm fine. I'll go with Sarah". Sherlock nodded and John walked up the tunnel to the stairwell and followed Sarah with her medical entourage onto the back of the ambulance. She was checked over and had a mild concussion from when she'd been hit on the head on their 'removal' from his flat. He took her hands in his and started to warm them up but she slowly pulled her fingers from his, laced them together and placed them on her lap. She sighed.

"John. I really did think I could make this work. Even after the circus and the brawl. But this… " She trailed off, took a breath and restarted. John really wanted to intervene; he could feel her awkwardness and her embarrassment. It would be easy to interrupt her with his well-practised I-understand-and-hope-we-can-still-be-friends speech but he suspected from her feelings that she really needed to admit whatever she had to say aloud, if only to herself.

"I was in a relationship which only just ended. He'd didn't want to stay. I… I loved him and he left and it hurt. But I know that he's still out there. I don't want to love again and have that person leave, but this time knowing that there's no chance of them ever coming back or even, painful as it would be, being happy with another. I think that would hurt a whole lot more."

"Sarah, I'm not like him but there'll always a risk that something could happen to anyone of us at any time. Nothing is that certain in life." How he wished Harry was here or Clara.

"But the risk is higher with you." He had no answer to that. He smiled weakly, rested his hand for a second on top of hers and said

"I understand. I hope we can still be friends".

She finally looked at him and smiled tentatively back. Through the bond, he sensed only relief.

* * *

Tuesday dawned bright and beautiful and John dressed in his best shirt and tie before heading down to Court. He'd originally thought about contacting Rita or Jude who worked in the Solutions section of Tony's Department to sort something out. It wouldn't be a first time that a guardian's work brought them in contact with the Law and these things were usually easy to solve but if it was possible to resolve the issue without involving that section, well, that was the most preferred solution of all. As it was a quick phonecall to Dimmock explaining the research on the paint, a few words from the community officer with the Registrar and the matter was dropped from the list that morning. John remained officially ASBO-free.

Afterwards, he headed towards the Museum of National Antiquities. He wanted to speak to Andy face-to-face. He'd never thanked him and at the very least, he owed him lunch. Inside the museum, he quickly detected Andy in the middle of a crowd. He was sitting down at a low table conducting an ancient tea ceremony. In the glass cabinet to his left, four teapots shone with renewed vigour.


	3. Chapter 3

In the Last Dark Hour Chapter III

Response to Prompt: John isn't human he's a guardian angel sent to protect Sherlock and keep him from either dying or becoming to similar to Moriarty (probably spelled that wrong). I would love a scene with Sherlock finding out and getting John to show him his wings, bonus points if their really sensitive.

Disclaimer: Sherlock is property of Mark Gatiss/Stephen Moffat/BBC and of course ACD. Stargate Atlantis is the property of someone else too.

* * *

When John woke up on Thursday after a lie-in, his first day off from the Clinic in six and the fourth day Sherlock had gone without a case, he thought it would be an ordinary day, one without surprises. He was wrong. The first surprise was to come downstairs to find Sherlock cleaning the windows in the living room. The extremely vile smell in the kitchen was not wholly unanticipated however. Sherlock it seemed had spent his morning devising a solvent to remove the yellow paint sprayed on the windows and in a short-lived fit of domesticity, but more likely experimentation, had used it to clean the glass. Mrs Hudson would be pleased. He offered to make tea and the hum of the kettle soon filled the flat. The second surprise was the urgent call from Irene before the water had even boiled. He took a deep breath, pressed both palms flat to the countertop and closed his eyes. It was a position Sherlock was not wholly unfamiliar with but he'd deduced logically if incorrectly that John was having some kind of flashback.  
"Planned abduction - 221b Baker Street. Tomorrow."  
"Who?"  
"The Trust - the London Chapter."  
"Sheppard said they were primarily based in the U.S."  
"Not anymore. Data Acquisitions and Jack in Colorado have confirmed chapters here in London, Paris, Beijing, Frankfurt, Zurich and the Cayman Islands." The theme was obvious,  
"It's about money then?"  
"Their filtering it around the world. It's a global op. And these are just the upper level operative chapters, they have embedded operatives at much lower levels from Argentina to Angola."  
"I take this has more to do with Mycroft's position then Sherlock?"  
Irene paused and John wondered what possible interest the Trust could have in a consulting detective on his own merits, smart though he was, unless it was something personal to one of the individuals involved. She continued at a slightly slower pace.  
"At the moment, at least three known members of the IOA have been compromised by the Trust. If the UK rep is compromised, the Trust will have a majority for all matters. We can't run that risk again."  
"Again?"  
"Mycroft replaced a man called Chapman."  
"I'm surprised that they haven't taken a more direct route before now." John pictured Mycroft stabbing his Trust assailants with the syringe concealed in his umbrella.  
"Oh they tried. They were not successful." Irene sounded grim. "I had to get a special dispensation." Her tone was clipped.  
That was the third surprise of the day.

"Mycroft knows what you are?"  
"As of two days ago, yes."  
"How did he react?"  
"A lot better than Sherlock will."  
"You really think it could come to that?"  
"Michael's already filed your application."

That could only mean one thing. Generally speaking, breaches of the rules on disclosure were considered professional misconduct with all reported instances coming before the Union's Disciplinary Tribunal at the first instance with a de novo appeals procedure available to the Appellate committee. Each consisted of three departmental representatives though none drawn from one's own department and in the case of the Committee none from the same departments as at first instance. Before the Tribunal, one could, of course, raise the defence of exceptional circumstances - giving evidence of the danger to a charge's life. But having a special dispensation granted in advance meant that the matter would never proceed to a disciplinary hearing. Dispensations were obtainable only where the risk of a charge's death was a confirmed probability of 99% from Data Acquisitions. Pre-approved dispensations were never a good sign. John always knew that having a lynchpin for a charge would be a challenge. Their futures were not as sand through an hourglass but as grains of a desert dune. The course of their lives and those they touched was better conceived of as a channel of air than a body of water - shaping and reshaping probabilities with every single choice. Recently it had been quiet, too quiet and John recognised that now for what it was - the calm before the tempest. As John digested this unpleasant realisation Irene indicated that the only way for Sherlock to negate his current risk level was to go somewhere the Trust did not. Irene suggested Belarus and John got in touch with Jude to find a hopeless case there that might draw Sherlock away.

Sherlock's concern spiked along the bond and when John opened his eyes, the man was hovering to his left and a cup of tea was in sitting on the counter in front of him. Sherlock was worried - it was probably the longest 'flashback' he'd ever seen John have. John reached for the tea and almost spat it out. He looked to Sherlock.

"I put in extra sugar."  
He was about to thank him for the cup of undrinkable tea when a chime from the laptop drew Sherlock's attention to the other side of the room.  
" John! I'm going to Minsk. Got a new case." Well, at least that wasn't a surprise at all.

* * *

Sherlock was due back from Minsk at five o'clock. John had found the last thirty-six hours trying. He could sense Sherlock even at his current remove - the bond was strong and yet something was still missing. In Sherlock's absence, the flat had remained spotless after Mrs Hudson cleaned it, with no strange smells or body parts or police evidence lurking around. There were no drugs busts. No plaintive violin solos filled up the silence at two in the morning, and throughout the quiet of the night, John had been unable to sleep even leaving the bond stretched to its maximum. He finally conceded that he may actually be missing his friend and all the noise and excitement that came with him. When his morning shift ended at the clinic, he decided to meet with Andy for a spot of celebratory lunch in the hope it would put him in a better mood. Andy had been cleared by the DFC's internal investigation over his actions in the tunnel. As neither Sherlock nor Sarah had seen him nor suspected anything untoward in John being propelled forward, there had been no breach of the disclosure rules and therefore no disciplinary hearing but the DFC had its own conduct requirements on acting as a causative link to final cessation. Despite being cleared, Andy's workload had been quadrupled following the investigation and he was none too happy about it.

"This week alone I've got sixteen. Sixteen! I've got one in two days time. Chap's going to be shoved down his front steps, bang his head and die. Worst British Winter in thirty years and I'll be outside in it waiting around for him to hit the bottom step."  
"What about your uniform? Don't you wear a cloak?"  
"Absolutely no protection, John. It's made from a polyester-nylon blend, hardwearing but terrible insulation. I'm hopeful the others will be indoors. But I've got a dozen to collect on one night. A dozen, John and on a Saturday too. As if I don't have plans."  
"A dozen?" That seemed rather a lot to John, even taking account of the seasonal increase.  
"One blind woman and eleven men. Fortunately, they'll all be in roughly the same location at the same time."

Lunch fulfilled its function, John was adequately distracted and, by the time the bill was signed, it was already three o'clock leaving John plenty of time to get back to the flat, change and head to Gatwick. There was no possible way he would leave his charge unaccompanied for the journey back from the airport.

* * *

Sherlock was a consummate actor but there were split-second moments when even he could not hide what he felt on his face. So his surprise and pleasure at the sight of John waiting for him in the arrivals hall was both seen and felt by his guardian. No one had ever waited to meet him before. The moment passed and the next minute, they were striding alongside one another towards the taxi rank, not a word spoken between them. Tomorrow, things would go back to normal. Or at least what counted as normal for a life with Sherlock.

John had finished with his last patient when he got an alert from Michael. He joined him a short time later and from the tone of his voice as he was greeted he knew he wasn't going to like anything that Michael was going to say.

"John."  
"Yes?"  
"There's much to discuss but not much time. This evening, you'll go home to Baker St. You'll have a disagreement with Sherlock. Stay no longer than four minutes and then you'll walk out. Take your USB key with you and go to Sarah's to discuss one of your patient's symptoms. Stay the night at her place or with Harry. Under no circumstances are you to return until tomorrow morning."  
"Disagreement?"  
"A row, an argument, a verbal fight."  
"Yes I know what it is but about what?"  
"I've every confidence in your ability to improvise."  
"Why?"  
"As you know Sherlock's life is in danger but you also know that as a lynchpin he's at a decisive stage in his life - that must be regulated by his own choice." John nodded - this was nothing new.  
Michael's pace slowed as if he were explaining something to a particularly slow child. "And sometimes, John, people don't really know their own strength of heart - it can't be explained to them in words. It can only be proven to them by their own action, or omission, as the case may be."

"What are you trying to say to me?"  
"John, it's like this: certain challenging situations must arise, and be allowed to arise in order for Sherlock to be able to choose the right path."  
"You expect me, basically, to let my charge be tried by fire? To throw him into the lions' den and let the lions have at him?" John was incredulous.

When Michael next spoke it was with all the authority of years of command behind him.  
"You are in the Department of Defence. You have a duty to defend your charge, from his own nature if needs be. But the reason you act as such, why we take on charges in the first place, is not simply for the betterment of the individual, but for society as a whole. You know this. There are choices always to be made between different dangers - allow Sherlock to face a situation that bears a risk of death or deny him that opportunity each time it arises and have a lynchpin fail to achieve their potential or, worse, turn - to the detriment of both charge and society as a whole."  
"He won't. He wouldn't turn."  
"Your loyalty to Sherlock is admirable and I know I'm not the only one to notice. John, you chose to befriend him - it was your cover - and I don't doubt that you genuinely consider him a friend now, but you are a warrior guardian first. Your obligation to him as your charge outweighs that as a friend and it always will."  
And with that, John knew he had lost the argument. "What exactly is this challenging situation?"  
"Well, at this point? You are."  
"You want me out of the picture."  
"I want you to trust me. And it's only for one night. Go to Sarah's."  
"Michael. Please... it's not a question of trust but I need to know why I'm doing this."  
Michael sighed.  
"He has to choose to save you John. That's the choice that will come to define him but he isn't going to make that choice tonight and he can't lose you until he does."

* * *

Seething with frustration at the half-explanations from Michael, his task and the inconsistency of protecting his charge by leaving him without protection, John marched home. In this mood, it wouldn't be difficult to feign anger. He considered the arguments he could start. He supposed that the eyeballs in the microwave might have been a source of one but that had been ages ago now or he could claim that he was using his laptop again or that Sherlock had eaten all the food Mrs Hudson had bought. He turned up Baker St. He'd be in the flat in less than a minute: flatmates fought about food most frequently, didn't they? Food it was then. As he opened the door, he was greeted by the sound of gunfire. It sounded like his Browning. He had got no warning from the bond and he doubted that he had any genuine cause of alarm as he ran up the stairs to find Sherlock blasting away into the wall with a pathetic yellow smiley face sprayed upon it that reminded John vaguely of Anderson. He was wearing the same odious, grey pyjamas and dressing gown he'd been wearing when John left in the morning and he doubted Sherlock had changed all day.

"I don't know what's got into the criminal classes. It's a good job I'm not one of them."  
John's frustration almost came to a head right but he removed and unloaded the weapon instead. His laptop was open and he subtly removed the USB key as directed by Michael while Sherlock's back was turned.

"So you take it out on the wall."  
"Oh, the wall had it coming." and with that Sherlock flopped down onto the couch.  
Twenty seconds. John had three minutes and forty seconds to start a row and leave in a huff. In the kitchen, John started the preliminary enquiries as to the food but the state of the dining table covered in Sherlock's bell jar and Bunsen was enough to raise his hands in unspoken thanks. Mess - another good ground for a fight. The severed head in the fridge almost won the day. Sherlock seemed entirely nonplussed by John's discomfort, explained his experiment, then changed the subject and John actually found himself letting it go. A minute had already clocked on when John found himself taking a seat and talking about his blog's latest post. The genuine nature of his friendship coupled with the honest feelings of hurt from Sherlock at being declared "spectacularly ignorant" put John on the defensive.

"It wasn't like that"

"Oh you meant spectacularly ignorant in a nice way!" But Sherlock didn't give into his hurt and lash out in anger instead he tried to explain his manner of information retention which his guardian sensed was driven by a need to be understood and a desire for John to be the one to do so. And John could, he really could but he couldn't let on. He'd less than two minutes left. He threw Sherlock's ignorance back in his face whose facepalm shielded his disappointment in John and frustration which boiled up until it formed words.  
"All that matters is the work, without it my brain rots. You can put that in your blog or better yet, stop inflicting your opinions on the world." He smacked the magazine across the table and curled in on himself away from John facing the wall. The frustration and disappointment were acute.

John swallowed. This was it. He needed to get up. He needed to walk away. He thought over Sherlock's words - "All that matters is the work" - and Michael's -"He has to choose to save you John ... but he isn't going to make that choice tonight", got to his feet, put on his coat and left, a comment on needing air thrown over his shoulder to Sherlock's query. Three and a half minutes, Mrs Hudson was on the stairs - he didn't bother with the scarf - and with ten seconds to spare he was striding out of the flat, aware of Sherlock's gaze and unhappiness at his back. He wanted him to come back but John wasn't going to - not tonight.

* * *

The night was cold and for a second John wondered if he should have used those spare seconds to grab a scarf. Well, it was too late now. He could feel Sherlock's gaze from the window on his back as he crossed the street feel his sorrow mingling with regret, loss and self-recrimination. He felt for one second the intense urge of his charge to run after him but it was quashed the next. Overlaying it all was John's own discomfort and guilt at starting an argument. He'd didn't care about the blog that much, it was only meant to be part of his PTSD cover anyway, though he did enjoy writing down his adventures, and he never meant to hurt Sherlock over it. He kept his mind away from pondering whether his artful manipulation of his charge was the real reason for his mood. He kept walking; his fingers curled into his palms as he shoved his fists further into his pockets to ward of the chill of the dusk as he lengthened his stride and turned the corner. He hadn't got more than two minutes away when he heard it.

An explosion. And along the bond, Sherlock, he was silent.

* * *

Michael's cautions and urging were thrown to the wind as John sprinted round the corner to find Baker St. clouded with grey dust which made his eyes sting and the back of his throat burn. Builder's dust. And inside he felt sick. Sherlock. He had to live. He had to and John would take it all back - he'd repost his blog and he'd say sorry, beg if he had to because his charge, his erratic, brilliant and chaotic charge had to live. And he realised that he wasn't in pain - the bond was still in place. Smoke to his right came from flames licking up the side of the buildings. The windows to the front of 221b had been blown in by the blast but opposite, the buildings no longer had a frontage. And then blessedly he felt Sherlock - panic and worry, but not for himself, for Mrs Hudson. He felt the worry from his charge bubble up inside of him with his own - it was too much and he spent the next ten seconds quelling the dry heaves that wracked his body with deep breaths. He cleared his mind and focused his thoughts. Sherlock was alive and so was Mrs Hudson. Mrs Turner was visiting her sister and her tenants lived in the top floor of 219 which appeared unaffected by the blast. He looked to 221b where Sherlock was taking care of Mrs Hudson and to the ruins of 222 and 224. 224 was vacant - the neighbours had gone on their annual ski-trip. They'd told Mrs Turner, who'd told Mrs Hudson, who had told John yesterday evening while wistfully patted her hip and commented on how skiing wasn't for her. 222 was occupied by one. He pulled his sleeve over his nose and mouth, stepped over the frontdoor and walked through the haze, straight into the hallway of 222.

John was hungry. He hadn't eaten since lunch, over twelve hours ago, he'd walked the two miles to Sarah's flat and he'd used almost all of his energy healing the woman he found in the wreckage at Baker St. She'd been slammed hard against the back wall of her front room by the force of the explosion, had a full bookcase collapse on her and been haemorrhaging internally. Her dusty tousled hair had stuck out amidst the fallen books. Even with his power, she had not regained consciousness and John was loathe to wake her - the shock to her body was something rest would best fix. It was only a matter of minutes before she was stabilised and removed from the building to the pavement. He'd left before he'd been seen, long before the emergency services arrived and Sherlock came out onto the street in his coat and pyjamas to help. The light of the new day filtered past his eyelids and he yawned. It was morning and he could go home. He sat up on the couch and was tying up his shoelaces when Sarah came in and switched on the t.v. As he tilted his head to greet her, he felt a twinge in his neck and shoulder from where he'd hefted the bookcase from the night before. He was about to heal it with the last of his strength but she was by his side and clearly thought the pain was the result of his choice to sleep on the coach and not the lilo. He let it be. If she had picked up on it, Sherlock would too. He flirted at little with her though from her expression he was somewhat out of practice. She wasn't his charge any more but he was thankful to her for taking him in last night. His gratitude warred with his desire to leave asap. As the possibility of breakfast was mooted, the desire increased and he considered how best to leave without looking rushed, guilty or relieved. The morning news blared out from the t.v. - more on the recovered lost Vermeer, old news to John - Sherlock had brought home a magazine on it - and then news of the Baker St. Blast. He grabbed his coat and headed out the door, the twinge in his neck forgotten.

* * *

Along the bond John felt the brand of annoyance unique to Sherlock caused only by contact with his brother. Mycroft had come to call. A black car was parked near Baker St. on double yellow lines; it held Irene. She availed herself of her usual means of communication to reach out to him as he pushed his way through the crowd.

"The cameras were blacked out on Baker St. before and after the blast."  
"Thanks" At least John didn't have to worry about anyone seeing him go in and out of 222 - not that it was that much of a concern.  
"We didn't do it. The bomber did."  
"The Trust?"  
"That is the most likely explanation."  
"They got the wrong building."  
"They got Mycroft's attention, which was perhaps all they wanted."  
"It was fortunate no one was killed."  
"Most fortunate. How's your shoulder?" added Irene and he could sense her smile even if he could not see it.

John allowed himself a few extra seconds to open the door to compose himself. This would be the first time he would meet Mycroft since his awareness of Irene's true nature. While he had been told nothing about John, he would soon figure it out if he had not done so already; whether he would tell his brother was entirely another question. There was no question that Mycroft had already gone back over Irene's paperwork trying to find anything that should have indicated this to him in advance - that suggested some fraud or forgery. He wouldn't find it of course. Paper identities from Tony's department were fool-proof and, therefore, government-proof. He believed they would be Holmes-proof too. He opened the door and found his charge's name on his lips before he was halfway up the stairs - the urgency in his tone and pace lending credence to the idea that he had only just heard the news before rushing home.

As John sat in the backseat of the cab with Sherlock on the way to Scotland Yard to check on a package addressed to the latter, his thoughts ran back to the conversation that had followed his arrival. He'd spotted Mycroft in his seat but chose to check on Sherlock first. The brothers parried petty jabs while John took in the damage to the flat. He could gauge where Sherlock had been standing, as he glanced to the table, his laptop was open, the keyboard covered in a layer of dust and smudged fingerprints. He stretched his neck and shoulder. Unsurprisingly, both men picked up on the neck twinge.

"How's Sarah John? How was the lilo?"  
"Sofa, Sherlock. It was the sofa!"  
"Oh, yes of course." And they were both wrong.

Unfortunately for John, the tension between the brothers did nothing to hide that between him and them - the elder for his suspicions as to John's true role in Sherlock's life and the younger following their first real argument. He made a conscious effort to meet the Mycroft's gaze as nonchalantly as possible when it fell upon him.  
"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became... pals. What's he like to live with? Hellish I imagine."  
"I'm never bored." And with that John's resolve crumbled and he looked away.  
"Good. That's good isn't it." It wasn't a question.  
Mycroft's eyes tracked back and forth between him and Sherlock and John was positive that he knew or had fairly guessed the true nature of the relationship. Sherlock was still doing his best to ignore his brother and had missed the undertone in the conversation, as Mycroft knew he would. Handing a file of national importance to John was as good as an affirmation.

As Mycroft had explained the lost top secret missile plans and the mystery of the agent found dead on the tracks with his head smashed in, a suspected suicide, his eyes were mostly focused on his brother. Sherlock was pointedly avoiding his gaze, seemingly absorbed in his rosining his violin bow and, from the side, John saw what his charge did not. In that look were guilt, relief and love. The man clearly blamed himself for endangering his brother and he had come here to confirm Sherlock's continued existence and perhaps looking for some kind of absolution. He wouldn't get it from Sherlock in this mood and, the case, his peace offering, was not going to be viewed as such by the detective.

Sherlock was predominantly irritated by what he viewed as his brother's patronising attitude. There was a little hurt there too - that Mycroft still didn't trust him to be able to take care of himself and insisted on giving him a case as one gave crumbs to the sparrows in winter. He didn't want his brother's pity. Underneath that though, there was some recognition that this was Mycroft's attempt to demonstrate that he cared. At no level did Sherlock blame Mycroft for the explosion but Mycroft was not privy to this, as John was. Mycroft would never get the absolution he sought because on that count Sherlock didn't have anything from which to absolve him. If Mycroft had admitted his real reason for calling, Sherlock would have told him so and both would have been the better off for it. They were the smartest men John had probably ever met, but they were still men and still impossibly reticent when it came to expressing their feelings. John almost rolled his eyes at the ridiculousness of it all.

"See you very soon." Were Mycroft's last words to him as he took his leave. And John had no doubt he would; it was a conversation he could do without. With Mycroft gone, John had tried to do his best to encourage Sherlock to accept the offering of his brother and when he met the standard Holmes stubbornness he countered it with reverse psychology.  
"Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere." Sherlock's desire to prove John wrong would ensure he followed up on the case. No sooner had John said this than Lestrade had called and John found himself hustled out of his seat and into a cab.

"Coming?"  
"If you want me to."  
"Of course, I'd be lost without my blogger."  
And that was as close to an apology has anyone had got from Sherlock and ironically its recipient felt it totally unmerited in the circumstances.

* * *

In the cab, John found himself unable to relax, troubled by Sherlock's explanation for the explosion the previous night. The gas leak was a cover story, and if John knew as much, Sherlock and Mycroft did too. John had been on the scene within scant minutes and had smelt no trace of gas in the air. He'd seen enough incendiary devices detonate to know the difference. Why Sherlock would tow the party line was baffling to his guardian. Did he not trust John or had he expected something like that to happen? Was he deliberately concealing his knowledge from John and if so, why? Was he beginning to suspect the truth about John? He always knew there was a particularly high risk of the detective figuring it out and the recent discovery by Mycroft set him even more on edge. It seemed everyone knew more than they were letting on, first Michael, then Mycroft and now his own charge and it was maddening. John tried to unbend his posture but his neck twinged again. His thoughts returned to the young, blond woman from 222. He hoped she was alright. John thought her name might be Charlotte. He'd never spoken to her though Mrs Hudson said she worked for the new London branch of Farrow-Marshall Aeronautics Inc. John's thoughts were disrupted by an urgent call, he closed his eyes on the back seat. To his surprise, it was Tony.

"John - hope you're well."  
"Tony. What's up?"  
"I need a hand with a couple of cases."  
"Sure."  
"Woman in her mid-forties, no children - case file just came to me today. She's been sending up urgent prayers for relief since last night. She's got twelve and a half hours before her file is to be automatically transferred to the DFC. And there's a bomb strapped to her."

It was that last sentence that grabbed John's attention - the urgency of the situation and the rapidity by which it had arisen explained why the file had not turned up on Michael's desk - she wasn't the target - anyone would have done but she'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Data acquisitions probably knew the place and the purpose but not the person until the choice was made. The use of the incendiary device coming after last night seemed too close to be a coincidence but John as yet could not perceive a link between the two.

"Where is she?"  
"I don't know. Data Acquisitions gave that info to the DFC and they're not saying." Tony's voice was steadily increasing in pitch and tone and John felt the beginnings of an awesome headache.  
"Your lynchpin is involved. I think he might be able to save her. And if Data Acquisitions can be biased in favour of the DFC, then I don't have a problem utilising resources from the DOD." Added Tony.  
"And the other?"  
"A boy, aged ten. Same set up but in two days and with a shorter deadline." John felt an internal chill which sent a shudder down his spine. Guardians were highly defensive over children - their vulnerability appealed to their duty to protect - though the majority of charges were in fact teenagers and adults. Their innocence and unquestioning faith was refreshing and their ability to look on an old world as something new was invigorating although this was by no means universal. While all charges were equal - a threat to the existence of a child tended to rouse the strongest of sentiments in warrior guardians. The makers of those threats almost always ended up under the uncontested jurisdiction of the DFC.

"I'll do what I can."  
"That's all I ask." In some ways, Tony was no different from John - they would both do whatever it took to protect those whose care was entrusted to them.

When John opened his eyes, the cab was already pulling into front of Scotland Yard and Sherlock's gaze was on him.  
"You're cold."  
"I'm fine."  
"You were shivering and now you've gone pale." Sherlock's curiosity and concern was peaked. Even with his deductive skills, John doubted the detective would conclude that the reason for his reaction was his response to an unpleasant telepathic communiqué. He turned away from him and got out of the cab. As it drove away, he turned to his charge.

"I think my trust issues have expanded to include London cabbies."

The corner of Sherlock's lip quirked up into a small smile before he twirled around, coat flaring around him, and strided towards the revolving doors. John followed the man on whom two lives now depended without his knowing with a measured degree of optimism. Sherlock could solve this, he could save them and as John recalled, Andy never mentioned collecting a child.

* * *

"You like the funny cases, don't you? The surprising ones." Lestrade had commented as he led them both into his office. It threw John for a second because he'd been almost certain that he'd had the edge at that time - that this concerned Tony's two cases. He couldn't imagine Lestrade finding either a woman or a child strapped to a bomb the least bit amusing or strange - sick, perverted and twisted, yes - funny or surprising, definitely not. Which suggested this was unrelated - how John was going to get his charge distracted from this particular case, refocused on to those flagged by Tony, leave him time to solve that of his brother's within the next few hours and keep him safe from the Trust and its machinations he didn't know. He couldn't help but doubt himself - all his best intentions might not be sufficient to keep his charge safe and the stark lack of information from Michael left him feeling off kilter. Michael had made it a question of trust and John wondered if it went both ways. He trusted Michael, in the end, admittedly after much prompting and, even if he did return to Baker St. against Michael's injunction, he hadn't gone to back to his flat but did Michael really trust him to do what was best for his charge and not to be blinded by his friendship for him?

Sherlock's surprise down the bond startled him out of his increasingly depressed line of thought. John replayed the last few seconds of conversation between his charge and Lestrade:

"That explosion."  
" Gas Leak."  
"No."  
"No?"  
"Made to look like one."  
"What?" Sherlock's surprise was genuine but John noted that it wasn't due to the knowledge of the true nature of the explosion but rather at Lestrade having figured it out. His abrupt query made John wonder if Mycroft had disclosed anything more before John's arrival. It seemed as if Sherlock was feeling out how much Lestrade actually knew.

"Hardly anything left of the place. Except a strong box, a very strong box." But what of Charlotte - she'd been left outside the building and her stuff - the books? John had seen what had survived - maybe Lestrade meant of the structure itself.

The contents of the strong box consisted of an envelope addressed to Sherlock. When Sherlock asserted that the paper was bohemian and the handwriting was from a woman, John started and queried him but his charge was certain.

"She?"  
"Obviously."  
Oh God! How could he have missed it?

A letter written by a woman found in a strong box at the location of an explosion where a single woman has just moved in, who apparently disappeared afterwards - no comment of her existence had been made in the news or of survivors in the hospital by Lestrade, who was clearly working on the case. She'd vanished and no doubt, from Lestrade's comments, the contents of 222, but for the box, were gone too. John tried to recall if he'd seen the box there but in the smoke and dust, he'd been focused only on finding survivors. John was not like Sherlock but even he could draw some conclusions from the circumstantial evidence. Farrow-Marshall had a branch in the Czech Republic - she could have easily obtained the notepaper while there. She'd done it - this Charlotte woman - she'd been the one to plant the bomb, maybe she made a mistake or maybe she was a loose end to be tied up too that the bomb had gone off while she was there and John had saved her. If he's listened to Michael - he wasn't meant to return but he had - a defiance he'd been so sure was correct, something he had been proud of and in the end, what had it been for? He'd saved the very life that had been trying to destroy the one he was pledged to protect. The anguish at this realisation was acute and John could not help repeating his charge as he struggled to neutralise his expression.

Maybe Michael was right not to trust him; John honestly didn't know if he trusted himself anymore.

Despite the aching void inside, the result of his recent conclusions, John was fairly certain he that the banal curious expression plastered on his face coupled with his open palms, hands by his sides would pass muster. The only person who might see through it had his back to him. Inside his mind, however, he counted his breaths - a technique he learned as a sharp shooter. A count of five on the inhale, five to hold and five out. He wanted to rip the envelope out of Sherlock's hand as he watched the man three feet in front of him carefully cutting it open in the light. He agreed with him - the fact that it's been x-rayed isn't reassuring at all. He knew what these people are - willing to sacrifice one of their own - they would have no problem killing Sherlock with anthrax or some other toxin. He forced himself to stay still, 5-4-3-2-1, and he let the air flow out of his lungs as Sherlock emptied the contents of the envelope into his palm.

It's a phone, a pink phone, just like Jennifer Wilson's. Oh it's not the same phone but it is a message - it draws a connection between the first case of the cabbie and this most recent one. It's a riddle within a conundrum wrapped in an enigma. John hates that sort of thing.

He's almost glad for the distraction that his annoyance at Donovan gives him - she's laughing at his charge and he can feel shame and irritation in Sherlock that feeds into his own. He has made the man a laughing stock with an idle comment. He glances to Sherlock but can't maintain the eye contact. He starts counting his breaths again.

In the next sentence Sherlock sends John's hasty conclusions to the wayside - of course, his blog. The pink phone - it could just be a manufactured connection - and John gave them all the information to do so. It chills John to realise that his post, which gives such a resounding insight into Sherlock's work but also the man himself, has a readership that encompasses Trust operatives. Now is not the time for guilt, he rethinks every post he's made to date and what information he's given out.

On the phone, there's another message for Sherlock. Five pips ring out.

And a picture appears, a picture of a grungy flat which had led Sherlock back to where they'd started only it was 221C, not 221B this time.

* * *

The living room in 221C was identical in all but one respect to the photo - a single pair of runners sat solemnly in the centre of the room, facing the doorway, where it was impossible to miss. Sherlock was positive that the party behind the message was intent on causing another explosion. There had been no alerts from Michael or from Irene and John was left relying on his charge for information. The thought that he may have lost Michael's trust stung but John buried the feeling with his determination to keep his charge safe. He was hyper-vigilant and, before Sherlock had gone within three paces of the footwear in question, he reminded him of the modus operandi used to date. When the voice of that terrified woman, the first hostage, had come over the speaker giving out the clues, deadlines and nauseating praise, John recognised it immediately as Tony's girl, the deadline only confirmed it - at least this case and Tony's were one and the same; it was one less thing to worry about. Sherlock had rapidly deduced the situation of the woman and her use in the sordid little ruse. The dingy, damp basement seemed even more confining as the voice cracked towards the end - the tone, the words and the pauses for her breaths breaking the silence into shards. Even if they got to her, when they got to her, John corrected, she would still need help. Right now she sounded broken in ways neither John nor his charge could fix - as if all her hope and all humanity had deserted her - and perhaps they had.

He had wondered at Tony's anxiety over her case at first but now John wondered how he'd handed over all her care to John and to Sherlock, although the latter knew nothing of the matter. John had been unable to let Michael make decisions regulating his conduct to his own charge, even where he knew that Michael had more information. Tony's actions seemed to show extraordinary trust of which John promised he would prove worthy. But in a small corner of his heart, he pondered whether it was in fact quite ordinary trust to one's colleagues especially when all were driven by the same shared motivation. Or was it even a question of trust at all? Was it simply a case of asking for help when needed, which far from being a weakness, was a strength? A strength John had proven to have. John had his pride but he was not so proud that he could not admit his mistakes nor allow it to impede him from seeking assistance. Hearing the utterly disconsolate and shattered vocals echo round the room, John realised he could learn from Tony. He would apologise to Michael, though that almost went without saying, more importantly, he would try to recognise when others could guide him in his conduct with his charge and allow himself to be guided by them, even if and most especially when it went against his own views. The call ended and Sherlock's muttering broke John's train of thought

"The curtain rises." When John had queried what this meant, he'd simply responded that he'd been expecting "this" for some time. "You and me both" thought John.

* * *

John cancelled his shift at the clinic and those the next day, ostensibly to clean up the flat but really to keep the man on track, for Tony's sake as well as for the woman. Sherlock and the runners went to Bart's and thither went John also. While Sherlock examined the shoes in the bright, florescent lights of the lab, John pondered the troubling fact that someone had been in their building to leave them there and set up the scene and neither Mrs Hudson nor, more significantly, Sherlock had noticed. They must have been there within the last twelve hours and while Sherlock and Mrs Hudson were either too distracted or not present to notice. They'd come through the door - Sherlock had recognised that the lock had been opened recently - the cameras would have caught them coming in and out. John knew Mycroft was always watching - but not last night. The bomb - it had been a diversion. More worryingly, someone had been watching them go into 221C- how else could the call have come at just that moment? It was possible that a telescopic lens and a basic prediction of how long it would take to enter and go down to the basement, knowledge already in the possession of the other side could answer that leaving no a/v evidence from today to boot.

As Sherlock began his study of the mud from the treads of the shoes, John subtly tried to direct his mind to answering the question of the woman's identity. If Sherlock could figure out who she was, her route could be identified and maybe there would be no need to partake of the puzzle. Sadly, Sherlock had discounted her as a mere hostage and John was reluctantly unable to add the little he knew, which Sherlock had no doubt already deduced. It was stretching even the detective's powers of observation to deduce a name and location from a single phone call lasting less than two minutes.

"No lead there." Sherlock had stated, eyes fixed on the petri dish at the end of his microscope.

John denied that was exactly what he was thinking, but now that Sherlock mentioned it, the possibility of tracing the call came to mind, only to be shot down by the detective. The chime of Sherlock's mobile disrupted the flow of the conversation and John discovered eight texts from Mycroft. As a warrior guardian who'd seen combat, patching warring brothers together should have a cinch but despite John's fraternal feelings for a number of others, he heavily reliant on his empathic bond to gauge the depth and breadth of the sibling rivalry.

"Remember there's a woman here who might die."  
John was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn't hear the door open and Molly and another man come into the lab until they were standing a few feet from him. John didn't recognise the male but Molly introduced him as "Jim from IT". The man seemed inordinately interested in Sherlock, like some fangirl. John had missed him slipping the card under the dish near Sherlock but his charge had not. Still, John felt moved to chastise him for his "kindness" to Molly in setting her straight about the orientation of the other half in her office romance. He knew Sherlock spoke the truth - he'd not been motivated by any malice.

John absently caught the runner as Sherlock put it in his hand. Following Sherlock's critique of his deductions, he took it back and proceeded to reel off an impressive list of facts. This was progress and the sooner he could solve the case, the sooner that that poor woman would be safe. But as Sherlock continued John realised that the facts related were already familiar to him - the detective was speaking of the life little James had extinguished - Carl, a swimmer and a bully - one that for his youth, Irene in her own fondness for children had not perceived as a threat. He'd read this in the old report from Data Acquisitions. Sherlock even had the full name "Carl Powers" It was then that the defining realisation sunk into John.

"It's all connected" Irene had said on the first night John had spent at Baker St and it was. Lynchpins were rare, having only occurred in nineteen generations to date, but they were always nucleated. It was unheard of for one to exist by itself. Of the 39 known instances of lynchpins, excluding the current generation, there had been three instances of three born in one generation and fifteen instances of two. The occurrence across the generations was similarly nucleated with no lynchpins occurring for some six hundred years between 400 and 1000AD but heavy clustering occurring between the 14th to 17th centuries, and again from the 19th century to the 20th century. In the case of trios, there seemed to be some indecipherable system of checks and balances governing the division of power between the three that resulted in a degree of self-maintenance and regulation. Although more frequently occurring in pairs, less was understood about the effect of interaction of triumvirates.

Why hadn't John thought of it before now? All those reminders of the nature of lynchpins from Michael and Irene. He really was the idiot his charge claimed him to be - he'd seen but not observed. He had assumed, given what he knew of the IOA's work, that Mycroft had been the other lynchpin - which would have been a reasonable conclusion had not John ignored the blindingly obvious: he already knew who the other lynchpin was in Sherlock's generation. He could even admit the possibility that that if his assumption was correct and Mycroft was also a lynchpin then this was an even rarer instance of a trio. This runner, this old, seemingly innocuous piece of footwear tied his charge to Irene's. What did this mean for Sherlock? John had already accepted that at some future point, he would be in danger and Sherlock would chose to save him, thus cementing his path and ultimately saving himself. Where exactly the other lynchpin fitted into this arrangement, John did not yet know. It could be a mere coincidence that the crime of one lynchpin had been the one selected in the first round of the sick game against another. John didn't think so. This seemed to be beyond the scope of a plot by the Trust to bring Mycroft to heel. But ruling out the involvement of a global multi-million pound criminal alien underworld organisation brought slim comfort to the guardian. What he did need was James' last name, which, in view of the duty of confidentiality, had been redacted from the report, and also his current address. He'd worry about feeding the information to Sherlock without him noticing when he got it. And there were only two people he could get that information from: Irene or Michael.

* * *

Unfortunately, Sherlock had already hustled John out of St Bart's and into a cab. As he carried on telling Carl's story, John reluctantly conceded that another zone out could not occur. For a man who was supposedly recovering from PTSD by a return to the battlefield so to speak, another flashback in less than twenty-four hours. The possibility of tying it to the taxi ride was not really an acceptable alternative. No, John would have to let both his apologies and his need for information sit on the back burner. Of course, every minute he did so, he risked Tony's charge, every single maddening second of the waiting but as John flicked his eyes to the dashboard, he reluctantly conceded that he had six hours left. As the cab left them at the flat, Sherlock made immediately for a box of old newspapers in the corner. John headed upstairs - here was the chance to have the conversation he both desired and dreaded.

John sat down on his bed - the weariness of the day only now catching up on him. He glanced around the room, warmed by the soft glow of the uplighter in the corner, taking in his favourite mug which contained the residue of sweet, cold, milky tea, the alarm clock with the alarm turned off and the feminine, patched quilt beneath his legs that Mrs Hudson had provided. On the bookshelf, there were photos of former charges, one of Harriet and Clara and two of himself and Harry in other lifetimes which he passed off as his mother and father and his grandparents. The walls were a pale blue - his favourite colour. He slipped his shoes off and curled up onto the quilt. He'd stayed in hundreds of places during his various lives and they always represented his cover at the time but 221b was more than that - it represented not only his cover but real self as well - it was home, something John hadn't known for three decades. Michael would be entirely acting within the scope of his discretion to ask John to resign as Sherlock's guardian or to simply transfer the file to another - Irene would probably be the best. He would give up his charge, his home and his life - it was so intertwined with Sherlock's own, it was hard for John to conceive of it as something separate. He heard the creaking of the chair downstairs - Sherlock had moved to the table in the living room and while Sherlock was saving a life, he was selfishly contemplating preserving his own. There was no putting off the conversation any longer. He closed his eyes and focused on Michael.

"Michael"  
"Ah, John. I've been expecting you."


	4. Chapter 4

In the Last Dark Hour Chapter III: Part II

Response to Prompt: John isn't human he's a guardian angel sent to protect Sherlock and keep him from either dying or becoming to similar to Moriarty (probably spelled that wrong). I would love a scene with Sherlock finding out and getting John to show him his wings, bonus points if their really sensitive.

Disclaimer: Sherlock is property of Mark Gatiss/Stephen Moffat/BBC and of course ACD. Stargate Atlantis is the property of someone else too.

* * *

"Michael, I know that I... I just wanted to say..." All the half-formed phrases that made up John's hastily constructed apology speech fled from his mind the moment he tried to rely on them. Save for the steady stream of affirmation from Sherlock, John's mind was as blank as ship's canvas.

Before he could attempt to fill the dead air, Michael pre-empted him:  
"You wanted to say you were sorry for failing to follow a clear, direct order and then point out my order was not to return to 221b even though you know perfectly well I meant it to encompass Baker street. That you thought you acted for the best when you saved what you now believe to be a Trust operative. You'll comment on the scope of my powers to deal with this matter, ask to remain on Sherlock's case and indicate that you've basically learned your lesson and promise to listen to me in future. Correct?"

"Well yes, that was about the sum of it."

"Consider it said." That had proved considerably easier than expected.

"But I do have to respond to your blatant disregard of orders." Or not.

"John, you were told not to leave and not return, not because your charge was in danger - but because you were. I am responsible directly for you and your well-being, just as you are for Sherlock's." John opened his mouth but a glance from Michael had him shutting it a beat later.

"I know you. I know you want to tell me you could gauge the risk of the building collapsing and your ability to heal yourself if anything did go awry." John nodded.

"That is exactly my point - you didn't think of the other dangers - for instance the very real danger that "Charlotte" posed to you. Now, before you interrupt me, she was a threat to you and if that threat had actualised, Sherlock would have lost you and so would I. Your charge is difficult at the best of times and that's stating it diplomatically, losing you would not have helped him in any way and I must impress that most firmly upon you. Furthermore, the damage that would have been done in terms of disclosure for all of us would have been irreparable and not even all of Tony's resources could have fixed it. And for the record, I will add that "Charlotte" would have survived - despite the extensive nature of her injuries, regardless of whether you healed her or not." Michael paused for a breath and John relived the sensation of being a cadet in basic training.

"That said, I'm not transferring you. You can chalk it up to a lesson learned which you've done already no doubt. Next time I give you a direct order, I expect it to be followed, not creatively interpreted. You're a guardian, not a lawyer." John's relief was palpable and at the last sentence John found himself meeting Michael's wry grin with one of his own.

"There's a limit to what information I can give you - not because I don't trust you but because I just don't have it. Data Acquisitions is having difficulty as many of the matters now affecting you and your charge and Irene's, I might add, are occurring outside their purview. Much of the information is coming indirectly from some of Jack's charges. You've already discovered a connection between the bomb attack and the Trust."

"Charlotte." Affirmed John

"Well, we'll call her that for now." John raised an eyebrow.

"You are also aware of the connection between the attack and Tony's charge?"

"Yes - but, despite the evidence I have my doubts as to whether the Trust would really behave in this fashion - picking a random victim off the street - making Sherlock solve a mystery - all this faffing around. It's an organisation driven by greed. This psychotic game just doesn't fit with the profile we have of it. And then there's the question of the coincidence of lynchpins."

"Both excellent points. I was wondering when you'd raise the issue of whom the other lynchpin was."

"I need to know Irene's previous charge's surname. See if I can track him down, if he's still alive. He's connected to the first mystery."

"You're referring to her old lynchpin? That case is closed, the files destroyed and only the redacted report is available. I daresay Irene might remember but I can't say that I do - it's been so many years ago. I know his file never ended up with the DFC so you can take it that he's still alive. For what it's worth, I wouldn't be too concerned in finding him. I believe that Irene's current charge is the counterweight to yours. Far more important is the issue of why the Trust is adopting, what you've correctly identified, as a peculiar tack - particularly if the aim is to procure control over the IOA."

"You've got a theory?"

"As I said, most of the information is from Jack and it's fairly patchy - we've got IP addresses, mobile phone numbers and account numbers - all of which appear and disappear and Data Acquisitions are only able to give us info with a quick turn-around. But Data Acquisitions and Jack have both confirmed one thing which may explain the new strategy - the Trust has been compromised."

"Well - that's good right? If one of our people has got in to it - they can feed us the information we need."

"John, that's thing. We haven't compromised it."

* * *

John got to his feet - ten minutes had passed and in that short time so much had changed. Not only had the chess pieces re-arranged themselves, they were no longer playing on the board. The conversation that should have brought him relief, now gave him new cause for anxiety and he still needed to speak to Irene. Michael had indicated that as Sherlock was in the clear for tonight, but Mycroft was not, he'd arrange with her for them to liaise later that evening wherever her charge was. It would have to be face to face - John had no reason to distract her by remote telepathic connection.

John went to the kitchen ostensibly to rustle up some tea and found himself pacing up and down. Through the yellow glass, he could make out the figure of his charge shuffling through cuttings - the glass rendering the detective's skin a sickly colour. The door seemed to be a metaphor for the distance from his charge, separated by the information John had in his possession. The maudlin thought was swept away by the regret at having taken the optional critical literary theory broad curriculum module at Uni.

He slid the door back but Sherlock did not look up. His offer to help sounded as desperate as he felt but along the bond, Sherlock hadn't picked up on the extent of his distress. The ping from his mobile inbox provided the cure for the killing inaction - one text from Mycroft, no doubt prompted by Irene, if not sent by her, questioning Sherlock's progress.

Ironically, it was Sherlock who ended up sending him out to the meeting - he had tried to get Sherlock to accompany him but the "it's-an-important-matter-of-national-security" tack had been a mistake when coupled with his cover and had fallen flat. As John changed out of his red denim shirt and into something more appropriate - did a brown velvet blazer count? a tie -where was his tie?- he couldn't help but be flattered by being called Sherlock's best man for the job. If only he knew.

* * *

He took a cab to Mycroft's office - Sherlock had given him the address - it was on the corner of a Georgian terrace - beautifully maintained, like all the others on the row, and eminently forgettable in square after square of Georgian London.

On the first floor, he spotted a figure sitting at the end of the corridor, moving closer, he saw it was Irene. There was nothing outwardly different about her appearance - her skirt suit was well-cut and immaculate, her nails pristine, her hair pinned up behind her head - not a loose tendril in sight and her legs folded neatly together to the right. John however recognised the tension in her - from the brisk force she used when she tapped on her blackberry, to the way she held her head up from her shoulders as if some one was holding a tape measure down her spine - it was the tension he saw in himself when the concern for one's charge was at a high. She spoke - the low tone belying the fury evident from her words and pace.

"He won't let me in the room; he believes he's safe. He thinks the bond is some ultimate GPS tracker. He doesn't understand I'm not supposed to track him after he's abducted, I'm here to prevent it happening in the first place!" She was as close to livid as John had seen her even as he reluctantly conceded that Sherlock would view the bond similarly.

"I already let my guard down once. Took me ten minutes to track him down and by then, they'd already pulled out two of his teeth. Of course, then he had to insist on having his own dentist - wouldn't even let me help, said he was 'fine'. And this was after I explained I could regenerate dentine and enamel." Not a root canal then.

Behind her lips, Irene ran her tongue over her own set of teeth. As far as John knew, none were original. "I refused to let him go until Data Acquisitions had processed his dentist. You can't be too careful. Turns out the man understated his income to the Revenue the last two years."

"He clearly can't be trusted." John valiantly refrained from smiling - he'd a feeling it would not go down well.

"My thoughts exactly. In the end, I just sent him to one of the orthodontists known to Tony in private practice, though the procedure is still tax deductible."

Mycroft was still young - relatively speaking - he'd learn in time that Irene was not a woman to be gainsaid - nothing stopped a determined guardian. He would lose this fight too. She might not be in the room but John knew that she'd ensured, with Michael's help, that he would be. Mycroft was not the only person with extensive resources.

Before John could ask his questions, she stood up, tapped lightly on the door to her left before opening it and popping her head around.

"Your next appointment is here."

"I don't have any more appointments." Mycroft's voice sounded out from a few feet away.

"You're scheduled to discuss the missing Bruce-Partington plans with Dr Watson."

"Since when?"

"Since I arranged the meeting forty minutes ago." There was a pause.

"I'm busy. The Korean elections are nearly upon us."

Hearing the conversation within, John was struck by the similarity between Sherlock and his brother - the same childish petulancy coloured their tones.

"You're playing minesweeper. I'm tracking your keystrokes on my blackberry. And he is standing right beside me."

A couple of seconds later, the door opened fully and Mycroft stood there, rubbing his jaw.

Mycroft's gaze tracked from Irene to John standing behind her. He opened his mouth but before a word came out, Irene turned to the side and said:

"Mycroft has a remarkably high score on minesweeper, probably because he knows how to play within the allotted boundaries."

"I'll be with you in a minute Dr Watson. Do take a seat." and with that Mycroft stepped into the corridor, holding the door open for John who passed by them both.

* * *

A moment later the door shut and he found himself in a large, double-height room with pale yellow walls lit softly by strategically placed lamps. Coats hung near the door and a large bookcase, laden with box files, faced an impressive desk and two windows between which hung a portrait of the Queen. The room smelled faintly of carpet cleaner, furniture polish and lilies of the valley. In comparison to 221b which was strewn with books, newspapers and glass beakers, decorated with skeletal remains and bullet holes and stank of decomposing flesh, Mycroft's office was well-ordered, tidy and clean. John didn't like it. The door was solidly constructed and he could hear nothing of the voices in the corridor.

From the subtext of her last comment, John was hopeful his discussion with Mycroft skirt around the issue of his actual position, after all the man's business was to keep secrets.

John took a seat in an uncomfortable timber chair and spent the next five minutes trying to find a comfortable position. He gave up and checked his watch again.

When Mycroft finally re-entered the room, he made no reference to his conversation with Irene and appeared to be carrying on the charade of being hard-at-work with a ridiculously pink file in his hand which he read as he greeted John.

"I hope we won't be long. How can I help you?"

It was hard to get a read on the man while he kept his back to him but on hearing that it was Sherlock who had sent him to get the information about the missile plans case, Myrcoft turned around.

"Did he?" He smiled softly and John detected slight disbelief in his tone, whether it was due to his doubt in his brother or his belief that Irene had orchestrated the meeting to circumvent his express wishes or both, John didn't know. The expression pulled at his abused gums and faded quickly, he rubbed his jaw again but he dropped it when he spotted John's gazed fixed upon his hand and gave his fake Cheshire-cat smile, as if his mouth wasn't bruised and bloody inside.

John's returning smile faltered as Irene's voice projected into his mind:

"Stay with him. There's someone else here."

Outside the room, there was the sound of traffic. Mycroft gave no indication that he heard anything out of the ordinary either. John tried not to appear too distracted as he kept one part of his mind directed to the open channel of communication.

While he confirmed the exact location of the body (Battersby) and the name of the man's fiancé, Irene remained silent. The peculiarity of the body found on a train track without a ticket or a used oyster card was not much of a mystery, not for his charge. That the man might have snuck past the barriers without paying or swiping his card was a bit too obvious.

There was a short lull to the question and answer session when all John could think of asking about the case was utterly exhausted. It appeared that the remainder of the conversation was now threatening to turn to John's real position - a small price to pay to keep Mycroft in the room without letting him know that he was. Mycroft would from time to time rub his fingers over his jawline.

"So, I imagine life with Sherlock is challenging?"

"Life tends to be that way generally."

"Yes, I'm sure you'd know. You weren't with him during the explosion on Baker St."

A short muffled pop sounded out from behind the door - it was a shot through a silencer. Mycroft's gaze strayed to the closed door and a moment later Irene gave him the all clear.

"Yes... I'd best be going." They shook hands before any more awkward questions could be posed on either side.

As he left the room, he saw Irene sitting outside. One curl had come loose and trailed down her neck, she was wiping her hands of gunshot residue with a tissue and some of her nail varnish was chipped.

"Is this a bad time?"

She looked up at him.

"Not at all." She tucked the blackened tissue up her sleeve, twirled the errant curl around her finger and twisted it back up into the French roll and picked up the blackberry on her lap and began to type.

"Your previous lynchpin, James, what was his surname?" The typing stopped.

"Why?"

"The case Sherlock has to solve - to save one of Tony's charges - it's the Carl Powers case."

"And he needs to know the name of the one responsible?"

"No - he needs to know how he did it."

"Botulinum toxin." Her words were so softly spoken, John almost missed them. "You think he's the one responsible?" Her voice was more audible.

"For Carl Powers' death?"

"No. For the threat to Tony's charge"

"I don't know. I do know that he was the one responsible for the death of Soo Lin."

"She was killed by her brother."

"But he had to know someone with the connections to get him, Shan and the other members of the Tong into the country." Irene paled and slumped back into her seat.

"Where did you hear this?"

"Andy told me. From the DFC"

Irene was silent - her eyes focused on the carpet, a small furrow deepening on her brow. This was news to her.

"It could just be a coincidence."

"I don't think it is - the odds of this being a situation where a trio of lynchpins is extremely low -I know but..."

Irene cut across him  
"A trimuverate?"

"You know - Sherlock, Mycroft and James."

"That's not possible."

"Why not?"

"Because Carl Powers was James' counterweight."

That explained why James was incredibly powerful - he'd grown and developed his potential as a lynchpin without the natural limit, without anyone to balance his actions in the world.

"But couldn't a trio form?"

"It's never happened before."

"That's not to say it can't."

Irene straightened up

"Trimumverates are known for being incredibly unstable. They tend to become imbalanced frequently - dividing two against one."

"Would it be such a bad thing if Sherlock and Mycroft were to unite against James? It's not as if there is anyone else who can counteract him."

"But they're meant to counteract each other. Sherlock is a check on Mycroft - it is one of the strongest emotional ties he has - it stops him from being blinded by his power and gives him something to fight for, something to protect, something more than his country. It makes him remember why he is acting and why others act too. And if he was to ever forget that, Sherlock would be the only one to remind him. And he would remind him, quite forcibly and volubly."

The rapidity by which she had taken up the new topic had not escaped John's attention and she still hadn't answered the question. It was time for a new tack.

"You can't protect James but if he is involved in this, you can help protect the other charges he now endangers - and if he is involved, then Mycroft is amongst that number. What was his surname?"

"Moriarty. His name was Moriarty."

The name was sickeningly familiar to John.

* * *

John wondered how he could bring the information to Sherlock's attention, there might not be any need to - he may have connected the bomber to the current case already. Irene had remained with her charge but he'd accepted the proffered lift back to 221b.

The name had not been the only bombshell she'd dropped - James Moriarty had had a special dispensation. He knew what she was and given his IQ, it wasn't a stretch that he'd guess what John was - afterall Mycroft had. It seemed strange that of all the people who knew, it was Sherlock himself who remained ignorant of John's true nature. But John had little time to contemplate this - it was highly probable, given the current stats on his charge, that John would be forced to intercede at some point in a manner some way well past all deniability. John was reconciled to the fact that it was only a matter of time before Sherlock was brought up to speed.

He tried hard not to let his mind imagine Sherlock's reaction. Denial? (Clearly John was suffering from some kind of congenital defect coupled with mental issues) Anger? (Had John lied all this time to him?) Betrayal? (Was John ever really his friend?) Shock? (How could he have not noticed?). John dreaded all of them. But these would be the normal reactions and when it came to Sherlock, well, normal it was best to be braced for other reactions too, said possible other reactions including annoyance (Of course, he should have spotted it sooner), smugness (I knew there was something odd about him all along!) and disturbingly, fascination (What kind of testing parameters...?).

No matter what the reaction, or when it came, one thing was certain John's main concern would be the safety of his charge. It was already too late to prevent him from coming to James Moriarty's attention - he'd already done that from the very first case John had seen him work. The increasing levels of interaction, even at a remove, had the unexpected and entirely unacceptable effect of increasing Sherlock's probability of death. At least John now had a name to the threat to his charge.

Irene's information on the criminal mastermind did not include an address sadly. He had one brother who now worked as Battersby station master with the London underground. As a boy, James Moriarty had proved intelligent and was particularly brilliant at mathematics. That he had psychopathic tendencies from a young age was obvious from the incident at the Pool. Clearly, he was also well-versed in the art of blending in - probably as good as John or Irene- if he'd gone this long and this far without being identified. Even now, the connections were only made because he was choosing to reveal the information in a well-timed, highly orchestrated release. Andy's comments confirmed that his connections in the criminal underworld extended far beyond the sponsorship of homicidal London cabbies.

He was powerful, probably rich and confident. Most disturbingly though was the obvious deduction - if the Trust was responsible for the bombing of Baker Street and Moriarty was involved in the bombing, then he was most likely a Trust operative. Given the level at which the Trust was compromised and by whom, the possibility that Moriarty's knowledge of the guardians would spread further, and within that particular organisation, was a serious cause for alarm, so much so that on making the connection Irene had promptly alerted Michael who had called a meeting of departmental heads. That meeting was still ongoing and John was anxious that the means of addressing the issue would involve Sherlock.

Despite her initial reluctance to accept the idea of a trio of lychpins forming, Irene shared John's concern that their charges would be pushed into serving the bigger picture. Mycroft would do his duty. Sherlock would do as he wished - which would leave it to John to make sure the detective's wish matched those higher up. John checked his watch as his ride turned up his street. Tony's charge had just three hours left.

* * *

"Here. Let me get that for you."

"Oh John. Thank you, dear."

He followed her through the dimly lit hallway and into her flat where he deposited them on her kitchen table. Her flat had the same layout as 221b and the same dodgy 70s wallpaper - only it was clean and lacked any suspicious stains, holes and odours. He noticed she seemed to be limping. John was not the type of person who could just ignore it. Eliminating senseless suffering was something that had motivated John into going into medical school, lifetime upon lifetime. Although staying at Baker St. was entirely due to Sherlock's presence there, he had a soft spot for the garrulous lady who put up with so much from her tenants (or rather from Sherlock; John didn't think he was too troublesome: he always paid his share of the rent on time).

"Are you alright Mrs Hudson?"

"I'm fine. Just my hip. It acts up in the cold weather and it hasn't been right since I slipped on the stairs after the explosion. I got such a shock. I've been taken my herbal soothers but they aren't having the same effect anymore." She patted her hip as she began to unpack her groceries. In the bright spotlights of the kitchen, her face seemed more careworn than before, the corners of her eyes speaking of the pain that her words did not.

The reminder of who was to blame for this suffering too had John covering his expression to one of professional interest. He had long held certain suspicions about the nature of the soothers.

"May I see the soothers?"

He wasn't surprised to see they were nothing more than that - some crushed up thyme, aloe and lavender - by their latin names in some fancy New Age packaging. Upstairs, he heard Sherlock pacing around the living room.

"I take it your GP didn't prescribe these?"

It was thirty minutes before John rejoined his charge. He'd ended up giving Mrs Hudson a quick examination when he realised she hadn't been to a GP since she left the US in 1999. While she was distracted with relating her medical history, he disguised his healing by gently probing the slightly distended flesh around her hip, explaining the resulting diminished pain by references to the beneficial effects of heat. She hadn't seen The Karate Kid but she bought his story left her with her promise to tell him if the pain came back and to bring him some tea in a minute.

She was so pleased to be pain free for the first time in days that she even forgot to tell him she wasn't his housekeeper.

* * *

Trooping up the seventeen stairs, John could feel the parry and thrust of Sherlock's emotions as he went through his deductive process reaching and discounting conclusions as fast as they came to mind. He'd no sooner opened the door and true to her word Mrs Hudson came up from the other door bearing a tray of tea. She stayed long enough to deposit the tray before Sherlock's enthusiastic table banging and shout of "poison" had her departing as quickly as she had come.

"Claustridium Botulinum" he stated as he looked up from the microscope. John tried to look as flabbergasted as possible as he confirmed that Sherlock had already figured out what John had been told and without him even having to hint at his prior knowledge: that the killer of Carl Powers was the party responsible for the bombing.

Matters progressed rapidly from Sherlock's post on his website to the bomb squad arriving at the scene. As soon as the location was known, John let Tony know who made sure Jude was on the bomb disposal team.

Case solved. Woman saved. Tony happy. One down. One to go.

* * *

He'd committed the sublime error - believing that the only ones that mattered were those who mattered to the guardians. The sound of the four pips in Lestrade's office and the image of an abandoned car, the next clue, during the debriefing the next morning, had reminded John that there were in fact four to go.

That knowledge stopped him from getting into an argument with Sherlock in front of the DI when he ascribed the motive as boredom. What worried John was the fact that Sherlock had felt not only sympathy with a highly dangerous and extremely unstable lynchpin but worse, some kind of affinity. Underpinning his languid "I'm not the only one to get bored." was a feeling of being understood, something that his charge had never felt so strongly before. The threat from Moriarty to his charge was now taking another sinister turn, if the taking of random victims and the bombings had not been enough.

It was the first time that John had had to concede in his heart of hearts that his faith in Sherlock– the very basis for the strong defence of his charge to Michael and categorical denial that any such possibility existed – was shaken. Such a concession was a lot like admitting failure. He couldn't blame Michael or Irene for those new-born doubts but he could blame himself. Had his charge just not connected with him that way? They were friends but he'd never sensed Sherlock's sense of affinity with him and while he did understand the man, Sherlock would not, until that dispensation got put to use, understand how well. John could see the possibility to which Michael had tried to enlighten him: his charge could very well turn and Moriarty could be the reason. And if he did, it wouldn't be out of boredom – out of the distraction Moriarty gave Sherlock from the tedium of the daily grind nor out of the love of a challenge to his intellect – it would be because Sherlock had found someone whom he felt could understand him. It was such a very human reason.

John was somewhat at a loss. He could help relieve the boredom and find challenges – he could happily take a few more of Tony's most esoteric briefs and throw them Sherlock's way. Sherlock would be none the wiser. He'd already done it to get him to Minsk. But those feelings of affinity – they couldn't be faked, nor did it seem as if they could be manipulated into existence. John had known from the first moment of the formation of the empathic bond that Sherlock was no sociopath but the hunger in him for an understanding companion was clearly not satisfied by John's patient acceptance of his place by his charge's side. If that affinity and that desire for understanding proved stronger than his friendship, then it was no wonder Michael was convinced Sherlock was not ready to choose to save him. The danger of that possibility was growing with the continued interaction with Moriarty and this was only the second pip. It left John wondering if he would be forced to make the ultimate gamble in the end: Sherlock's friendship with him against the expanding influence of Moriarty. John was a betting man, but even he knew those odds weren't as good as he had believed.

Donovan opened the door, addressing Sherlock – not by name – but in the usual fashion "Freak. It's for you." She held a black phone in her hand. While Sherlock left the room, Lestrade had tracked the car whose photo had been the latest message. John was left wondering if his failure to defend Sherlock against the petty insults directed against him, time after time and in front of him, was really all that different from Irene's failure to recognise the impact of the bullying on James. On the other hand, Sherlock's emotional response to the childishness of Donovan and Anderson was never that of hurt or humiliation, he genuinely didn't care. John left Lestrade tracking the car down, intending to have a word with her but before he could act, the bond with Sherlock went still. Sherlock stood with his back to him, his unseeing gaze directed out the window, his entire focus on the conversation: he was talking to the second victim.

* * *

They were in the taxi following behind Lestrade's car on the way to the docklands when John roused Sherlock from his reverie. Sherlock had lapsed into silence after his brief synopsis of the conversation and his deductions therefrom at the Met. His earlier comments had confirmed that it wasn't Tony's other charge:

"Adult male, in his thirties. Londoner, educated in a state school, from the accent. It's likely he was randomly selected. Like the Cornish victim." That would again explain the dearth of info from Data Acquisitions.

"In a public place. I heard traffic in the background. Heavy vehicles but not articulated trucks – sounded like large public service vehicles. So somewhere serviced by buses but not generally used by trucks. Small cars so not an exclusive bus zone, sounds of footsteps so pedestrian access. Probably somewhere in central London - a traffic island or street corner but busy enough that a man standing talking on a phone blends in."

"How do you know its central London?" Donovan had asked. Sherlock had rolled his eyes:

"The level and type of traffic – pedestrian and public service. And because the bomber wants attention. Why go to this trouble if there's no recognition of his power? Central London. There's no recognition in blowing someone up on Hampstead Heath!" Lestrade interrupted before he could continue.

"How long do we have?"

"Eight hours."

"That's one hour less than last time." Anderson threw in.

"Do you take some kind of perverse delight in stating the obvious? In communicating the pointless?"

Suffice to say that after a brief attempt by Lestrade at alternative dispute resolution, it had been all engines a-go, with the office springing to life. In the hustle, John had almost been able to forget his earlier doubts and self-doubts. Almost. But in the quiet of the cab with Sherlock beside him – his eagerness a near palpable force – it was no longer possible to ignore. It wouldn't have been fair to blame Sherlock either.

"Sherlock. She's not right you know." Sherlock swivelled his head towards John and raised one quizzical brow in response.

"You're not a freak."

"John, you appear to be labouring under the misapprehension that I am in need of reassurance. 'Freak' - are you aware of the definition of the term?"

"Sherlock, it's name-calling, it's petty and it's bullying."

"An occurrence marked by the unusual or the irregular. I think we can both agree that I am not usual or regular. I have no wish to be. Normality is highly overrated, John."

"So you're saying you'd rather be a freak by Sally's definition than like Sally?"

"Well, it was the OED's definition, not Sgt. Donovan's."

"You don't see the problem in defining yourself in other people's words?"

"We all define ourselves that way. It's called language John."

"You don't think that it's limiting? Categorising yourself that way? Putting yourself in a pigeonhole?"

"If I put a Belstaff label on a coat from Primark - would it make that coat a Belstaff, John? No. It wouldn't. Even if the cut, colour and weight were the same, you could compare the fibres under the microscope – the difference in blend and texture would be apparent."

"But anyone who saw the coat and the label would think it was."

"Exactly."

With that the cab pulled in, twenty feet from the cordon and Sherlock hopped out, leaving John with the knowledge that he'd lost the argument without knowing how.

* * *

Donovan and Lestrade were already there striding towards the vehicle from the message. No sooner had John got ten paces towards the cordon than the muddy water seeped into his shoes, leaving his toes cold, wet and with something slightly gritty between them. He tried not to think about it.

The car was parked in front of them, rented to one Ian Monkford, a banker. John was accosted by Sgt. Donovan who came with her own suggested hobby list. He overheard Lestrade stating there was blood but no body. Before he could get a look inside, Sherlock was off, approaching a woman, identified as Mrs Monkford. Her voice sounded broken but John couldn't help notice that her make-up was perfect, her mascara hadn't bled and her eyes were neither swollen nor inflamed. It was possibly shock or waterproof mascara and Brighteye drops but it didn't seem as if she'd shed a single tear.

Hearing Sherlock's equally devastated baritone took John entirely by surprise. He felt no sorrow in his charge's heart, no emptiness, no grief. What was Sherlock playing at? John found himself thinning his lips till his mouth was nothing but a line. He wanted to be anywhere but there, at that moment, as those doubts, those dull echoes from the shadows in his soul, took form, strengthened and moved well past the defined borders of denial. He said nothing to add to the charade but nothing to take from it. There was something suspicious about her – if he could pick up on it, how much more was apparent to Sherlock. He would let it run its course; he drew the line at participating. There were tears, actual tears rolling down Sherlock's face. Lestrade was right – the stage had lost a great actor in Sherlock Holmes.

As Sherlock left the scene and made his way back to the waiting cab, John kept his voice as non-confrontational as possible.

"Why did you lie to her?" In effect, Sherlock had manipulated her into giving more information than she otherwise would have done. John could not judge him for it – it wasn't so different from what John had done (and was doing) to Sherlock, even if it had been for Sherlock's own sake.

The card Sherlock found in the car led them to Janus Cars. Two hours had already gone.

* * *

Janus Cars sold cars that John's cover precluded him from ever owning. A soldier's pension did not allow for a flash car, not that John cared. It was only a material thing. Lives began, ended and began again for John's kind - it was really only the memories that he could carry from one to the next. They were prized above all things; they could not be stolen, burned or crashed. They were the ties that bound him between the past as it grew and the futures indeterminate ahead.

Of course, there were some objects that fell back into his possession but he could only keep those insofar as they could be integrated into the new life from the old. He could keep the odd photo or book, but not every one – there'd be too many; the same for his dog tags and his old clothing. The things that he did leave behind when he moved forward went the way of all such things for the guardians – ultimately they ended up in storage under Tony's jurisdiction. They would be sold at auction later, usually six or seven generations later at a minimum, though it depended on the popularity of the objects in question. The wealth amassed would help fund the demands of new lives. Their kind didn't get attached to objects, unsurprisingly, since no attachment could have ever rivalled the feeling of a real empathetic bond.

He watched as Sherlock interviewed Mr Hewitt. It was artfully done – the head of the garage thought nothing amiss and was oozing the kind of confidence that made John suspect that he believed that he had fooled his way more than once in this particular role. He played into Sherlock's hands beautifully in the end and from the short exchange Sherlock knew the man to be a liar.

* * *

The Detective insisted on returning to St Bart's to test the lab sample of blood from the car. There were four hours left. John left him in the lab, got himself some chocolate from the vending machine but changed his mind and decided to head to the canteen for something more substantial. He ran into Molly in the corridor. It was awkward. She refused to meet his eyes for more than a second or two. Obviously the humiliation from earlier had not been forgotten.

"Are you doing alright?"

"Yeah. Is Sherlock around? I really don't want to see him."

He really needed Harry's help or Clara's or better yet, both – they did their best work as a team.

"Come on. Let's get a cup of tea." Which was how he ended up in her office with a dreadful cup of instant coffee, rather than enjoying a greasy burger and some soggy chips covered in copious amounts of garlic mayo.

"We broke up. Jim and I."

He leaned across and patted her right shoulder as she pressed her face to the palm of her hand with her left arm propped up on her desk. At least she wasn't crying. Two crying people were enough in one day, even if Sherlock had been faking.

"You know Sherlock. He shouldn't have said that as he did but he did it with the best motives. He really did think it was better you knew as soon as possible."

"I know. I'm not really angry at him. I'm just… just… Did you know everyone else knew Jim was gay? Even Mike. And no one said anything. Not one. Except Sherlock. Tina said she thought I knew and was dating him to make Sherlock jealous. I wasn't though. I really thought… I don't know what I thought." She shook her head.

John patted her shoulder again and manfully swallowed the cold, milky, chicory flavoured water. How on earth did Sherlock drink this coffee?

"He just used me to get to Sherlock. To get close to him. He probably always meant to do that. He was always asking about him, the Great Detective. Him and his "friend" Seb! He couldn't get enough of his website, always posting up there. And I just didn't see it. People ask what drove me into pathology. Days like this remind me why. I prefer the dead to the living."

Her eyes were filling as she looked to him and John was compelled to take drastic action and dig out the now semi-solid bar of dairy milk in his chest pocket.

"Molly. You're smart, fun and pretty. Jim is an idiot but then I have it on good authority (i.e. Harry, thought John) that most men are. And quite frankly, you can do a lot better than a chap who spends time dyeing his eyebrows!"

That brought a small, smile to her face or possibly the square of squidgy chocolate he offered her. On the other end of the bond, he felt a wave of curiosity and fascination followed by that sickening sense of affinity again. Jim was calling. The feeling cut off, probably with the phone call and a minute later, triumph sang down the bond.

As John tried to figure out the best way to take his leave, he sensed Sherlock moving towards him briskly. The door to Molly's office soon opened in the middle of some more of John's softly spoken platitudes.

"John! Come on! A man's life depends on it!"f


End file.
